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THE  SPELL  OF  HOLLAND 


,0a 
OF  CALIF-  '° 


THE   SPELL   SERIES 


Each  oolume  with  many  illustrations  from  original 
drawings  or  special  photographs.  Octaoo,  with 
dccoratiix  cooer,  gill  lop,  boxed. 

Per  volume  $2.50  nel,  postpaid  $2.70 


THE   SPELL   OF   ITALY 
By*  Caroline  cAtwater  eTMason 

THE    SPELL   OF   FRANCE 
By  Caroline  tAtwater  oAIason 

THE   SPELL   OF   ENGLAND 
By"  Julia  de  W.  cAddison 

THE   SPELL   OF   HOLLAND 
By"  Burton  E.  Stevenson 

THE   SPELL   OF   SWITZERLAND 
By  Nathan  Haskell  Dole 

THE   SPELL   OF    THE   RHINE 
By  Frank  Rjoy  Fraprie 

THE  SPELL  OF  THE  ITALIAN  LAKES 
By  William  D.  tTUcCrackan 


L.  C.  PAGE   &   COMPANY 

53  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


Copyright,  1911 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  August,  1911 
Second  Impression,  October,  1911 
Third  Impression,  January,  1914 


THE  COLONIAL  PRESS 
C.  H.  8IMOND8  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  U.  8.  A. 


TO 

Setts 

BEST   OF   COMRADES 


2133434 


CONTENTS 


I.  INTO  "  HOLLOW  -  LAND  "        .    .  .      . 

n.  THE  CITY  ON  THE  ROTTE      . 

III.  ALONG  THE  MERWEDE 

IV.  FIRST  LESSONS  IN  DUTCH      . 
V.  TRAMS  AND  TREKSCHUITS       . 

VI.  OUDE  DELFT 

VII.  THE  "  BLYDE  INCOMSTE  "  AT  LEIDEN  . 

Vni.  IN  "  THE  COUNT'S  ENCLOSURE  "  . 

LX.  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  SLOTERDIJK 

X.  HAARLEM 

XI.  ROUND  ABOUT  HAARLEM       . 

XII.  A  STROLL  ON  THE  BEACH      . 

XIII.  THE  TOWN  ON  THE  AMSTEL  . 

XIV.  A  GLANCE  AT  DUTCH  ART     . 
XV.  THE  HUT  or  PETER  THE  GREAT  . 

XVI.  THE  CITY  OF  RIPENED  CURDS 
XVH.  THE  ISLAND  OF  MARKEN,  LIMITED 
XVIH.  THE   ANNEXATION   OF  THE   "  CHOCOLATE- 
DROP  " 

XTX.  FREE  FRISIA 

XX.  ZWOLLE 

XXI.  THE  CITY  FATHERS  OF  KAMPEN  . 

XXII.  MORE  ABOUT  KAMPEN    .       . 

XXLLI.  THE  HERMITS  OF  THE  ZUYDER  ZEE    . 

XXTV.  AMONG  DUTCH  INNS       .       . 

XXV.  THE  HILLS  OF  HOLLAND        . 

XXVI.  INTO  ZEELAND  ....... 

XXVH.  LAST  DAYS 


PAGl 

I 

13 

26 

44 
57 
73 
86 

102 

119 

131 

143 

154. 

164 

181 
190 

208 
227 

246 
265 
282 
292 


314 
338 
35° 
361 

375 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

THE  RIETVELDSCHE  TOREN,  DELFT.    From  a  painting  by  Frans 

Walden Frontispiece 

MAP  OF  HOLLAND facing  vi 

A  DORDRECHT  VISTA 30 

IN  THE  CHURCH  AT  DORT 36 

THE  HARBOUR  AT  GORINCHEM 40 

THE  STADHUIS,  GOUDA.  —  THE  GROOTE  KERK,  GOUDA       .       .  52 

A  WINDMILL  NEAR  DELFT 60 

ON  THE  "  OUDE  WEG  "  TO  SCHEVENINGEN 64 

A  STREET  IN  OLD  SCHEVENINGEN 68 

A  CANAL  AT  DELFT 74 

THE  EAST  GATE  AT  DELFT,  NEW  CHURCH  IN  DISTANCE    .       .  82 

THE  "  BLYDE  INCOMSTE  "  AT  LEIDEN       .       .       .       .  .:•  .       .  92 

CUTTING  PEAT  ON    THE   HAARLEMMER   POLDER.  —  PEAT  DRY- 
ING FOR  MARKET    .       .....       .       .       .       .  126 

A  ZWOLLE  GAPER.  —  A  HAARLEM  GAPER       .       .       »       .       .  132 
INTERIOR     OF     GROOTE     KERK,     HAARLEM.  —  CHOIR  -  STALLS, 

GROOTE  KERK,  HAARLEM 134 

RUINS  OF  THE  CASTLE  OF  BREDERODE 146 

A  WINDMILL  AT  LEIDEN 154 

THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  RHINE,  KATWIJK.  —  SHELL  -  GATHERER  ON 

THE  BEACH,  KATWIJK 158 

AN  AMSTERDAM  CANAL 164 

THE  QUEEN,  THE  PRINCE  CONSORT  AND  JULIANA         .       .       .170 

A  VISTA  IN  AMSTERDAM 174 

THE  WEIGH -HOUSE,  ALKMAAR 214 

vii 


viii  List  of  Illustrations 

PAGE 

THE  ALKMAAR  CHEESE  -  MARKET  OPENS.  —  TESTING  THE  CHEESE  216 
CHILDREN  AT  MARKEN,  FRONT  VIEW.  —  CHILDREN  AT  MARKEN, 

REAR  VIEW 234 

A  MARKEN  STREET.  —  A  MARKED  MADONNA  ....  236 

THE  HARBOUR  AT  VOLENDAM  ON  SUNDAY 238 

Two  MAIDENS  OF  VOLENDAM.  —  AN  OLD  COUPLE  OF  VOLENDAM  240 

A  VISTA  AT  EDAM 244 

HARBOUR  -  TOWER,  HOORN. — THE  HARBOUR,  HOORN  .  .  .252 

THE  AANSPRECKERS  AT  ENKHUISEN  .  ......  258 

THE  DROMMEDARIS  TOWER,  ENKHUISEN 264 

SCRUBBING  THE  STREET  AT  ZWOLLE 282 

THE  PULPIT,  GROOTE  KERK,  ZWOLLE 286 

THE  SASSENPOORT,  ZWOLLE 290 

CITY  -  GATE,  KAMPEN    .       .       .       .      ...      .      .       .  300 

STREET  SCENE, KAMPEN,  —  MARKET-WOMEN  AT  KAMPEN  .  .  302 

LOADING  THE  HAY,  —  HAYMAKERS  NEAR  KAMPEN  .  .  .  308 
BRINGING  IN  THE  HAY  NEAR  KAMPEN.  —  "A  SINGLE  SLENDER 

TREE  .  .  .  WORTHY  OF  HOBBEMA  " 310 

GOING  MILKING,  NEAR  KAMPEN 312 

THE  COSTUME  OF  URK 318 

JAN  LOOSMAN,  LICHTWACHTER,  AND  HIS  FAMILY,  URK  .  .  .322 

THE  AANROEPER  AT  URK 326 

THE  BACK  STREET  AT  URK 328 

ON  THE  WHARF  AT  URK.  —  THE  OLD  FISHERMAN  .  .  .  334 

THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  HERTOGENBOSCH  ....  362 

COMING  HOME  FROM  CHURCH,  WALCHEREN 368 

A  ZEELAND  COURTSHIP 370 

THE  TOWN  HALL,  MIDDLEBURG 380 

A  ZEELAND  MILKMAID 384 

THE  BRESKENS  COSTUME 386 


THE 

SPELL  OF  HOLLAND 


CHAPTER    I 

INTO    "  HOLLOW-LAND  " 

"  HAF  you  any  sveets?  " 

It  was  the  Dutch  customs-officer  at  Flushing  who 
asked  the  question,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  tapped  our 
luggage  with  an  inquiring  finger. 

"Sweets?"  I  repeated,  doubting  if  I  had  heard 
aright. 

"  Sveets  —  yess ;   candy,  cakes  ?  " 

Tobacco  and  spirit  we  were  accustomed  to  deny. 
But  candy,  cakes! 

"  How  absurd !  "  said  Betty. 

The  inspector,  however,  evidently  saw  nothing  of 
absurdity  in  it;  so  I  gravely  assured  him  that  we 
had  with  us  neither  candy  nor  cakes,  and  started  to 
unstrap  the  luggage  to  prove  it. 

He  stopped  me  with  a  gesture,  made  a  few  cabal- 
istic chalk-marks,  and  waved  us  on. 

We  passed  through  an  open  door  and  emerged  upon 

1 


The  Spell  of  Holland 


the  platform  beyond  with  a  certain  sense  of  exaltation 
and  excitement.  We  were  in  Holland  —  a  country  of 
whose  language  we  knew  not  a  word.  And  we  had 
decided  that,  on  this  pilgrimage,  we  would  depend 
upon  our  own  resources.  Never,  never  would  we 
employ  a  guide  or  interpreter;  never  would  we  fre- 
quent places  "  patronized  by  English  and  Americans." 
We  would  see  the  Dutch  at  home ;  we  would  find  our 
own  way  about  —  that  would  be  half  the  fun  of  the 
trip!  You  will  see,  if  you  follow  this  veracious  nar- 
rative, how  well  we  kept  that  resolution ! 

By  the  side  of  the  platform  a  long  train  was  drawn 
up,  each  carriage  labelled  with  its  destination  — 
"Amsterdam,"  "Den  Haag,"  "  Dort,"  "Antwerp." 
We  were  going  to  Rotterdam,  but  we  saw  no  Rot- 
terdam label.  So  I  approached  a  tall,  bearded  man 
in  resplendent  uniform  and  inquired  if  this  was  the 
train  to  Rotterdam. 

"  Wat  ist  ?  "  he  demanded,  glaring  at  me  sternly. 

"  Rotterdam  ?  "  I  repeated,  uncertain  as  to  the  lan- 
guage he  had  spoken.  It  sounded  like  English,  and 
yet  it  didn't.  "Rotterdam?"  I  said  again,  and 
pointed  to  the  train. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head  to 
intimate  that  this  strange  word  was  unknown  to 
him. 

"Is  this  Holland,  or  what  is  it?"  I  inquired  of 
Betty.  "  Surely  he  ought  to  know  Rotterdam ! " 

"  Let  me  try,"  said  Betty,  and  she  also  said  "  Rot- 
terdam?" and  pointed  to  the  train. 


Into  "  Hollow-land" 


The  big  man  cogitated  deeply  for  a  moment;  then 
a  light  broke  over  his  face. 

"Oh!"  said  he.  "  R-R-ROTTERDAM  !  Ja,  ja!" 
and  he  led  us  to  the  nearest  carriage. 

Mere  type  cannot  express  the  way  in  which  he 
pronounced  that  word.  It  was  not  a  word,  it  was 
an  explosion  which  almost  swept  us  off  the  platform. 
I  saved  my  cap  by  grabbing  at  it,  and  we  clambered 
into  our  places. 

"  Just  the  same,"  continued  Betty,  when  we  were 
settled,  "  it  was  absurd." 

"  Yes,"  I  agreed ;  "  he  ought  to  understand  his 
own  language.  I  wonder  if  they  always  use  so  much 
wind  when  they  talk?  I'll  have  to  get  a  string  for 
my  cap." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Betty.  "  I  meant  about 
the  sweets.  Why  should  they  look  for  sweets?" 

"  Because  the  government  taxes  them,  I  suppose. 
That's  the  usual  explanation.  In  England  it  was 
whiskey ;  in  France  it  was  matches  and  tobacco ;  here 
it's  cakes  and  candy.  I'm  glad  you  finished  that  last 
box  before  we  arrived." 

There  was  a  sudden  excitement  on  the  platform; 
a  man  appeared  and  looked  at  our  tickets  and  handed 
them  back  to  us  with  a  polite  smile,  and  shut  the  door 
with  a  bang  and  threw  the  catch. 

We  looked  at  each  other  with  beaming  faces.  We 
were  to  have  the  compartment  to  ourselves. 

And  then  the  train  rumbled  out  of  the  station,  and 
started  leisurely  away  toward  Rotterdam,  and  Hoi- 


The  SpeU  of  Holland 


land  —  the  Holland  of  our  dreams  —  began  to  unroll 
before  us.  Let  me  add  here  that  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that,  strictly  speaking,  Holland  is  but  a  single  prov- 
ince of  the  Kingdom  of  the  United  Netherlands;  but 
to  English-speaking  people  it  has  come  to  stand  for 
the  whole  kingdom,  and  with  this  meaning  it  will  be 
used  in  this  book. 

Here  we  were,  then,  with  Holland  unfolding 
before  our  eyes.  The  first  thing  to  be  done,  of  course, 
was  to  get  the  windows  down.  Then  we  gazed  out 
through  the  gathering  dusk  at  the  strange  landscape. 
And  yet  not  strange,  for  we  had  seen  it  a  score  of 
times  in  Dutch  pictures. 

That  landscape  is  always  the  same  —  low  and  level 
fields,  regularly  laid  out  and  divided  by  narrow  bands 
of  gleaming  water;  gayly-painted,  high-roofed  houses 
here  and  there,  each  with  a  few  trees  about  it;  an 
occasional  windmill,  with  its  great  arms  going  round 
and  round;  and  in  the  foreground  and  middle  dis- 
tance and  extreme  distance,  long  avenues  of  limes  and 
elms  and  willows,  marching  in  stately  procession  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  all  of  a  size,  all  trimmed 
on  exactly  the  same  pattern,  all  planted  at  exactly  the 
same  distance  apart.  These  trees  are,  to  the  stranger, 
the  first  tangible  evidence  of  the  Dutchman's  love  of 
order  —  that  habit  of  precision  which  is  bred  in  the 
bone.  But,  as  we  go  on,  we  find  that  the  whole  coun- 
try is  trained  and  pruned.  The  fields  are  all  parallelo- 
grams; the  angles  ar.e  all  right  angles;  the  lines  are 
all  straight  lines.  Trees  grow  just  where  they  should, 


Into  "  HoUow-land  " 


trained  to  strange  shapes ;  streams  flow  at  a  calculated 
speed,  between  rigid  banks;  not  a  weed  dares  show 
its  head  where  it  is  not  wanted. 

All  of  which,  I  take  it,  is  because  the  Dutch 
have  made  the  land  they  live  on,  and  so  could 
shape  it  to  suit  themselves.  Here  is  none  of  the 
carelessness  of  nature,  but  the  ordered  reign  of 
science ! 

Every  road  and  every  canal,  as  I  have  said,  is  bor- 
dered by  an  avenue  of  trees.  If  the  trees  are  along 
a  canal,  their  roots  serve  to  strengthen  the  banks.  If 
they  are  along  a  road,  they  offer  a  most  grateful  shade 
during  the  heat  of  summer.  Whether  along  road  or 
canal,  'they  add  not  a  little  to  the  picturesqueness  of 
the  country. 

One  would  think  that  service  enough  to  exact  of 
any  tree;  but  the  Dutch  are,  before  everything,  utili- 
tarian. They  harness  the  winds  of  heaven;  they  use 
the  dredgings  from  their  streams  as  fuel;  and  they 
use  the  branches  of  their  willows  to  strengthen  the 
dykes.  Hence  most  of  the  willows  are  pollarded,  so 
that  their  roots  strike  deeper  into  the  soil  to  hold 
the  canal-banks  in  place,  while  their  branches  are  sold 
to  the  government  to  be  woven  into  mats  to  hold 
back  the  sea.  Somebody  has  remarked  that  the 
Dutchman  has  three  enemies  —  his  lakes,  his  rivers, 
and  the  ocean.  The  lakes  have  been  drained,  the 
rivers  imprisoned,  and  the  ocean  driven  back.  The 
whole  country  is  a  fortress  surrounded  by  fortifica- 
tions in  the  shape  of  dykes,  manned  by  an  army  of 


6  The  Spell  of  Holland 

engineers  waging  a  ceaseless  war  against  an  enemy 
that  never  sleeps. 

After  an  hour's  ride  through  Holland,  no  Dutch 
landscape  has  any  surprises  for  you.  And  yet  to  say 
that  it  is  always  the  same  is  not  to  say  that  it  becomes 
monotonous.  It  never  does.  One  grows  to  love  it 
and  to  understand  it,  to  look  for  well-known  features 
and  to  mark  with  delight  trivial  variations.  One 
studies  it,  and  finds  its  heart  always  open.  It  is  com- 
panionable; it  is  a  landscape  to  live  with,  restful 
beyond  compare.  It  furnishes  the  key  to  Dutch  char- 
acter. 

And  then,  of  course,  there  is  always  the  variation 
of  light  and  shade.  The  sky  changes  from  grave  to 
gay  and  back  again  in  the  most  surprising  way.  The 
red  sails  of  the  boats  gliding  along  between  the  fields; 
the  high-lights  from  the  glazed  tiles  of  the  houses; 
the  varied  tints  of  wheat  and  flax  and  colza;  the  in- 
comparable green  of  the  lush  meadows,  diversified  by 
white  daisies  and  scarlet  poppies;  the  streams  gay 
with  water-lilies  and  bright  with  ever-changing  re- 
flections —  all  these  give  to  the  Dutch  landscape  a 
charm  and  variety  always  fresh  and  delightful. 

This  landscape,  so  placid  and  so  gentle,  teems  with 
life.  The  pastures  are  dotted  with  black-and-white 
cows  and  snowy  sheep;  the  ditches  are  alive  with 
ducks  and  swans;  along  the  roads  the  queer  little 
carts  of  the  peddlers  are  always  passing,  drawn  by 
dogs;  or,  perhaps,  it  is  a  milk-cart,  its  cans  gleaming 
like  burnished  gold,  and  pushed  by  a  white-capped 


Into  "  Hollow-land" 


girl;  the  rivers  and  larger  canals  are  full  of  boats  — 
boats  of  every  kind  and  size  and  shape;  boats  with 
red  sails  or  propelled  by  steam,  or  drawn  by  a  man 
and  a  dog.  I  do  not  know  any  country  which,  in 
the  life  of  its  fields  and  roads  and  rivers,  offers  so 
much  of  interest. 

The  black-and-white  cows  are  everywhere,  fr6m 
Zeeland  to  Friesland  —  from  south  to  north.  Great, 
placid  creatures  they  are,  quietly  grazing  in  little 
herds,  and,  I  have  fancied,  more  phlegmatic  and  self- 
satisfied  than  the  cows  of  other  lands.  Always  black- 
and-white,  for  the  Dutchman  will  have  no  other  kind, 
they  produce  those  millions  of  gallons  of  milk  from 
which  are  made  those  millions  of  pounds  of  cheese 
and  butter  by  which  the  Dutch  farmer  grows  wealthy. 

And  also  everywhere  at  this  season  —  mid- June  — 
are  the  haymakers,  men,  women  and  children,  labour- 
ing, while  the  sun  shines,  to  gather  and  house  the 
food  to  maintain  all  these  cows  through  the  winter. 
You  may  well  believe  that  it  takes  a  lot  of  it!  Such 
ricks  of  hay  are  to  be  seen  nowhere  else;  mountains 
of  hay,  overtopping  the  trees  and  the  houses.  Those 
big  cows  also  have  big  appetites!  All  this  is  done 
by  hand ;  the  hay  is  mowed  with  the  scythe,  is  turned 
with  rakes,  is  loaded  and  stacked  with  pitchforks. 
That  is  the  way  it  has  always  been  done,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, always  will  be.  The  women  are  white-capped 
and  many-skirted;  the  men  are  blue-trousered  and 
gray-shirted ;  and  all  are  wooden-shoed. 

So  much  for  the  Dutch  landscape. 


8  The  SpeU  of  Holland 

Our  train  ambled  along  at  a  moderate  pace,  pausing, 
from  time  to  time,  at  little  stations,  and  we,  who  had 
come  from  England,  were  impressed  by  the  care  every 
one  took  to  make  sure  we  were  going  the  right  way. 
On  English  railways,  the  traveller  is  left  to  look  after 
himself  to  a  surprising  extent;  no  one  approaches 
him,  no  one  examines  his  ticket,  no  one  makes  sure 
that  he  is  on  the  right  train,  he  must  find  out  for 
himself  when  he  has  reached  his  destination,  and 
sometimes  he  must  hunt  up  a  man  to  give  his  ticket 
to.  Once  we  could  find  no  one,  and  we  have  those 
tickets  yet!  Here  all  that  is  changed.  At  every 
step,  a  guard  appears  and  looks  at  your  ticket,  and 
punches  it;  as  soon  as  he  finds  you  are  a  stranger  in 
the  country  —  which  is  usually  in  about  a  second  — 
he  takes  care  to  inform  you  that  this  is  not  your  sta- 
tion and  that  you  are  to  keep  your  seat.  If  you 
attempt  to  alight,  you  are  pushed  back  into  the  car- 
riage, gently  but  firmly.  Every  attache  of  the  com- 
pany seems  to  know  your  destination,  and  to  be  deter- 
mined to  see  that  you  reach  it  safely. 

And  here  let  me  pay  a  tribute  to  Dutch  railways. 
They  never  seem  in  a  hurry,  they  stop  amply  long 
at  stations,  and  yet  they  are  always  on  time.  The 
carriages  are  clean  and  comfortable;  the  second-class 
compartments  are  even  luxurious;  the  third-class  not 
at  all  bad,  but  apt  to  be  crowded.  Before  the  train 
starts,  an  official  assures  himself  that  it  is  the  one  you 
wish  to  take;  if  you  do  not  get  out  at  your  station, 
a  guard  comes  to  tell  you  that  you  have  arrived. 


Into  "  Hollow-land  " 9 

This  is  true  not  only  of  the  trains  but  of  the  light 
steam-trams,  which  cross  the  country  in  every  direc- 
tion. Add  to  all  this  that  the  trains  run  at  frequent 
intervals  and  at  hours  nicely  calculated  to  suit  the 
convenience  of  the  people  along  the  route  and  that 
the  fares  are  very  low,  and  perhaps  you  will  under- 
stand why  I  think  Dutch  railways  the  best  managed 
in  the  world.  They  are,  for  the  most  part,  owned 
and  operated  by  the  state.  I  doubt  very  much  if  we 
could  do  so  well. 

Darkness,  long  delayed,  came  at  last,  and  still  we 
rumbled  on,  over  a  great  bridge,  pausing  at  Dort, 
where  refreshments  were  offered :  —  sandwiches  of 
veal  and  salad,  most  tempting  in  appearance  and  folded 
in  a  snowy  napkin;  fruit,  wine,  beer,  mineral  waters, 
hot  coffee  — 

The  price  of  a  sandwich? 

"  Forty  cents,  sir,"  says  the  attendant,  in  careful 
English. 

The  price  seems  rather  high  till  one  reflects  that 
a  Dutch  cent  is  not  a  coin  of  large  value.  For  there 
are  a  hundred  of  them  to  the  florin,  and  a  florin  is 
worth  about  forty  cents  American;  so  that  forty 
cents  Dutch  is  about  fifteen  cents  American  —  the 
usual  price! 

The  attendant  has  cigars,  also;  very  nice-looking 
cigars.  I  picked  up  one  and  asked  the  price. 

"  Six  cents,"  said  the  attendant. 

I  gasped. 

"  Six  cents  ?     Do  you  mean  six  cents  Dutch  ?  " 


10 The  Spell  of  Holland 

He  nodded,  and  I  bought  two. 

Very  gingerly,  I  started  to  smoke  one  of  them; 
but  doubt  soon  vanished.  It  was  really  a  good  cigar 
• —  and  it  had  cost  less  than  three  cents  American !  I 
had  a  haunting  fear  that  the  man  had  cheated  him- 
self; but  I  found  out  afterwards  that  it  was  rather 
an  expensive  cigar  —  for  Holland ! 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Betty,  "  if  smoking  is  allowed?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  and  called  her  attention  to  a  sign 
in  Dutch,  French  and  English  on  the  partition  above 
her  head.  The  English  part  of  it  read: 


Smoking  allowed  here  unless  objected  to  by 
any  passenger  who  has  not  been  able  to  find  a 
seat  in  any  of  the  compartments  in  which  smok- 
ing is  prohibited. 


"  If  you  object,"  I  said,  "  we'll  stop  the  train  and 
call  the  guard  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  I  don't  object  as  long  as  you  smoke  a  cigar  as 
good  as  that  one.  But  it  sounds  rather  complicated. 
What  do  you  suppose  happens  when  one  does  object?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "  Maybe  we'll  see,  some 
day." 

But  we  never  did.  No  one  ever  objects.  There  is 
no  one  left  to  object  in  a  country  where  even  the 
babies  smoke. 

Indeed,  great  attention  is  paid  to  the  convenience 
of  smokers,  and  only  a  few  compartments  bear  the 
prohibition,  "  Neit  Rooken,"  which  means  "  No  Smok- 
ing." Even  in  those,  one  may  smoke  if  there  are 


Into  "  Hollow-land  " 11 

no  ladies  present,  only  you  must  knock  your  ashes 
out  the  window,  since  no  trays  are  provided  for  them. 
But  at  last  we  were  entering  Rotterdam,  on  a 
viaduct  high  above  the  streets,  which  enables  the 
patrons  of  the  railroad  to  get  disconcerting  glimpses 
into  the  second-story  windows  of  the  houses  on  either 
side.  I  suppose  the  people  living  there  cease  to  notice, 
after  awhile,  the  passage  of  a  train.  Then  we  rum- 
bled to  a  stop  in  a  shed;  the  courier  from  the  Hotel 
Weimar  was  in  waiting  and  handed  us  over  to  the 
bus-driver,  and  we  rattled  away  over  the  cobbles, 
mounting  a  steep  bridge,  now  and  then,  and  coasting 
down  on  the  other  side;  catching  glimpses  of  the 
lights  reflected  in  dark  canals,  crowded  with  strange- 
looking,  shadowy  craft  —  just  such  a  scene  as  Tom 
Hood  saw,  nearly  a  century  ago  — 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters 

In  broad  canals  and  deep, 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams 

Sleep,    restless    in    their   sleep; 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice 

Reminds  me  where  I  am; 
Yes,  yes ;  you  are  in  England, 

And  I'm  in  Rotterdam. 

The  bus  stopped,  a  porter  opened  the  door  and 
seized  our  luggage ;  a  boy  held  open  the  hotel  door  for 
us.  M.  le  Proprietaire  met  us  on  the  threshold  and 
after  a  solemn  greeting,  commended  us  to  the  portier; 
the  portier  assigned  us  a  room  and  summoned  the 
elevator-boy,  who  took  us  upstairs  and  summoned  the 
chambermaid;  who  brought  some  hot  water  and  took 


12 The  Spell  of  Holland 

our  order  for  dinner  down  to  the  head-waiter;  who 
assigned  another  waiter  to  attend  us.  So  it  required 
the  combined  efforts  of  ten  people  to  get  us  settled 
for  the  night.  I  had  a  vision  of  those  ten  people 
standing  in  line  with  hands  outstretched  as  we  left 
the  hotel.  But  that  vision  was  not  prophetic,  for 
Dutch  servants  are  made  of  flesh-and-blood,  not  of 
brass. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    CITY    ON    THE    ROTTE 

THE  RIVER  ROTTE,  transformed  into  the  most 
placid  of  canals,  still  flows  through  Rotterdam.  In 
the  dam  across  this  river  the  city  had  its  origin,  and 
from  it  took  its  name;  but  only  in  the  last  half- 
century  has  it  been  of  any  great  importance.  Now, 
coupled  to  the  North  Sea  by  a  wide  ship-canal,  it  is 
the  first  commercial  city  in  the  kingdom.  Even 
Amsterdam,  hoary  with  age,  yields  precedence  to  this 
vigorous  stripling.  But  its  very  newness  detracts  from 
its  interest  to  the  stranger.  The  dog-carts,  and  high- 
hipped  market-women,  and  gleaming  milk-cans  add 
an  unaccustomed  note  to  the  streets,  but  they  are, 
for  the  most  part,  given  over  to  quite  ordinary  traffic. 
There  are  some  old,  high-gabled  houses,  and  a  few 
streets  with  an  unquestioned  air  of  antiquity  about 
them;  but  there  are  so  many  other  places  in  Holland 
where  these  things  may  be  seen  to  so  much  greater 
advantage  that  Rotterdam  would  scarcely  be  worth 
a  visit  but  for  a  single  attraction. 

That  attraction  is  the  shipping.  Nowhere  else  is 
there  such  a  tangle  of  shipping  as  at  Rotterdam.  It 
crowds  the  canals  and  eddies  along  the  quays;  the 
high-backed  bridges  are  constantly  opening  to  let  it 

13 


14  The  Spell  of  Holland 

through;  locks  are  forever  filling  and  emptying  — 
shipping  of  all  kinds,  from  the  great  liner  just  in  from 
New  York,  to  the  flat-bottomed  little  trekschuit  which 
a  boy  and  a  dog  have  towed  in  from  Oudewater  with 
a  few  pounds  of  butter  for  a  cargo. 

Towing  is  an  art  in  Holland,  and  horses  are  so 
few  there  that  most  of  it  is  done  by  men  and  women 
and  dogs.  Now  it  is  easy  enough  to  tow  a  boat  along 
a  canal  when  there  is  a  steersman  at  the  stern  to  keep 
her  nose  away  from  the  bank;  but  when  it  comes 
to  towing  a  boat  with  no  steersman,  —  and  there  very 
seldom  is  one  except  upon  the  large  barges,  —  it  re- 
quires some  ingenuity.  The  steersman  is,  of  course, 
dispensed  with  in  order  to  cut  down  the  cost  of  opera- 
tion, but  it  must  have  taken  some  thought  on  some- 
body's part  to  devise  a  towing  method  which  would 
allow  the  towman  to  proceed  straight  ahead  without 
stopping  every  minute  to  get  the  boat's  nose  out  of 
the  mud.  It  is  accomplished  by  fastening  the  tow- 
line  amidships,  and  then  to  a  spar  fastened  sideways 
in  the  bow,  thus  forming  a  span  which,  when  prop- 
erly adjusted,  carries  the  boat  on  an  even  course 
without  the  need  of  a  rudder.  All  over  Holland  you 
will  see  this  process  in  operation.  Sometimes  a  dog 
trotting  in  front  of  the  man  helps  to  pull;  sometimes 
he  uses  his  wife  as  auxiliary  power,  sometimes  his 
children.  Sometimes  he  merely  pushes  against  the 
pole,  dispensing  with  the  towline,  and  sending  the 
boat  forward  as  fast  as  he  can  walk.  It  is  probably 
not  nearly  so  easy  as  it  looks. 


The  City  on  the  Rotte  15 

Here  at  Rotterdam,  you  will  see  every  size  and 
variety  of  these  trekschuits,  as  they  are  called.  The 
smaller  canals  are  crowded  with  them.  Yonder  is 
one  which  has  brought  a  calf  in  to  market;  there  is 
another  serving  as  a  moving-van  and  piled  high  with 
furniture;  and  here  is  a  sail-boat  just  in  from  the 
river  with  a  load  of  fish. 

A  board  with  the  legend  "  Vish  te  Koop  "  —  "  Fish 
to  Sell "  —  is  hung  to  the  mast,  and  buxom  huis- 
vrouws  in  white  caps  and  wooden  shoes,  basket  on 
arm,  step  aboard  to  select  their  purchase.  The  fish 
are  swimming  about  in  a  tank  in  the  centre  of  the 
boat,  all  sizes  and  all  kinds,  including  eels.  The 
housewife  looks  them  over,  decides  on  the  kind  she 
prefers,  considers  the  size  and  appetite  of  her  family, 
and  points  out  to  the  boatman  the  fish  she  wants. 
The  boatman  slips  a  little  hand-net  over  the  fish,  lifts 
it  out  gasping,  places  it  on  a  beam-scale,  weighs  it, 
names  the  price,  receives  the  money,  and  then  pops 
the  fish  into  the  huisvrouw's  basket.  If  she  is  par- 
ticular, she  hurries  home  with  the  fish  and  keeps  it 
alive  for  a  day  or  two  in  a  tub  of  clear  water  to 
improve  its  flavour. 

But  the  characteristic  boat  of  Holland  is  the  freight- 
barge,  at  once  the  home  and  livelihood  of  its  owner. 
Built  broad  and  blunt  of  bow  to  secure  the  maximum 
of  loading  space,  flat-bottomed,  so  as  to  draw  as 
little  water  as  may  be,  they  are,  first  of  all,  utilitarian. 
But  they  are  more  than  that.  For  a  Dutch  bargee 
would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  on  the  dirty,  unsightly 


16  The  Spell  of  Holland 

vessels  so  common  on  the  rivers  of  other  countries. 
His  boat  is  varnished  and  oiled  till  it  shines;  its  upper 
works  are  gayly-painted ;  its  deck  is  scrubbed  as  white 
as  any  liner's;  its  brass- work  (and  there  is  always 
a  lot  of  it)  shines  like  burnished  gold;  its  iron-work 
is  not  painted  or  lacquered,  but  polished  till  it  looks 
like  silver;  immaculate  white  curtains,  looped  up  with 
bright  ribbons,  hang  at  the  cabin-windows;  nowhere 
but  in  Holland  will  you  see  such  a  boat. 

And  they  are  all  like  that.  Their  buckets  and 
water-barrels  are  painted  green  and  have  hoops  of 
polished  brass;  their  long  curving  tillers  are  marvels 
of  ornamental  brass- work.  Before  the  windows  are 
little  carved  railings  supporting  pots  of  gaudy  gera- 
niums. The  dog-house  is  painted  in  blue  and  pink. 
And  always  you  will  see  the  dog  trotting  nervously 
up  and  down  on  guard,  while  his  mistress,  a  vrouw 
of  comfortable  proportions,  sits  placidly  knitting  in 
the  stern,  awaiting  the  return  of  her  lord  and  master 
from  his  affairs  of  business.  Every  barge  has  its 
name,  but  here  there  seems  to  be  a  lack  of  originality. 
I  should  hate  to  have  to  compute  how  many  "  Wilhel- 
minas  "  there  are  in  Holland,  though  "  Juliana "  is 
now  corning  to  the  fore.  Also  there  is  the  "  Gouden 
Tulp  "  or  "  Golden  Tulip,"  the  "  Gouden  Leeuw  "  or 
"  Golden  Lion,"  the  "  Gouden  Zon  "  or  "  Golden  Sun." 
From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  gold  is  popular  here, 
as  everywhere. 

Here  at  Rotterdam,  too,  one  is  at  the  birthplace  of 
that  Fabian  reformer,  Gherardt  Gherardts,  or  Eras- 


The  City  on  the  Botte  17 

mus  Desiderius,  as  he  afterwards  called  himself  — 
not  too  modestly,  for  the  words  mean  "  Beloved  and 
Long-desired."  He  stands  in  bronze  in  the  market- 
place, and  his  birthplace  is  shown  in  the  Wyde  Kerk- 
straat  — "  in  this  small  house  was  born  the  great 
Erasmus."  But  time,  and  the  scientific  historian, 
have  not  dealt  kindly  with  his  fame,  and  his  principal 
claim  to  our  remembrance  is  that  Holbein  painted  his 
portrait  and  Charles  Reade  wrote  a  mighty  romance 
about  his  parents. 

There  is  also  a  church  at  Rotterdam,  a  great  pile 
of  brick  fashioned  to  a  shape  somewhat  Gothic,  and 
dating  from  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  but 
in  no  way  noteworthy  save,  perhaps,  for  its  tower,  a 
massive  pile  which  dominates  the  country  for  miles 
around.  And,  lastly,  there  is  the  Boymans  museum; 
but  most  of  its  pictures  were  destroyed  by  fire  some 
forty  years  ago.  I  shall  never  forget  our  visit  to  it. 
We  were  passed  from  guardian  to  guardian  —  there 
is  one  in  every  room  —  like  the  most  precious  of 
treasures.  Those  old  men  were  almost  tearfully 
anxious  that  we  should  miss  no  picture  worth  seeing, 
making  the  most  of  their  only  visitors  that  morn- 
ing. 

The  best  pictures  in  the  museum  are,  I  think,  the 
Cuyps,  of  which  there  are  five  or  six,  all  of  them 
full  of  light;  and  a  charming  little  landscape  by 
Hobbema,  one  of  the  few  by  that  artist  which  Holland 
still  possesses.  Here,  too,  we  got  our  introduction 
to  that  endless  procession  of  pictures  of  dead  game, 


18  The  Spell  of  Holland 

which  crowd  the  walls  of  all  Dutch  galleries  and 
which  I  detest.  Any  consideration  of  Dutch  art  may, 
however,  be  well  postponed  until  we  reach  that  su- 
preme treasure-house  of  Dutch  paintings,  the  Rijks 
Museum  at  Amsterdam.  An  hour  will  suffice  for 
the  Boymans,  and  you  have  exhausted  Rotterdam. 

For  let  me  make  the  point  here  that  Rotterdam  is 
not  characteristic  of  Holland.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
least  characteristic  in  the  country,  though  Arnhem 
runs  it  a  close  second.  It  is  modern  and  commercial; 
Arnhem  is  modern  and  residential  —  that  is  the  differ- 
ence. The  characteristic  Dutch  towns  are  not  the 
big  ones,  but  the  little  ones.  This,  I  think,  is  true 
of  every  country;  but  it  is  more  true  of  Holland  than 
of  most,  for  there  the  big  towns  lack  what  every 
little  town  possesses  —  cleanliness  and  quiet  and  the 
air  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  big  towns  are 
dirty  and  noisy  and  cosmopolitan,  with  a  rage  for 
modernity;  hence  they  are  not  Dutch.  And  I  urge 
here,  as  I  shall  all  through  this  book,  the  necessity 
of  staying  in  the  little  towns  if  one  is  really  to  see 
Holland. 

We  took  the  tram,  that  afternoon,  out  to  Delfts- 
haven,  chiefly  interesting  to  us  Americans  because  it 
was  from  here,  in  1620,  that  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  set 
sail,  intent  on  reaching  a  land  where  they  could  en- 
force their  own  ideas  of  Sabbath  observance.  For 
the  Dutch  thought,  and  still  think,  that  Sunday  was 
set  apart  as  a  day  of  relaxation.  The  old  church, 


The  City  on  the  Rotte  19 

where  the  Pilgrims  held  their  farewell  service,  is  still 
standing,  but  is  not  otherwise  of  interest. 

From  Delftshaven  we  went  on  to  Schiedam  —  cele- 
brated for  quite  a  different  reason,  for  it  is  the  home 
of  "  Hollands  "  and  "  Geneva,"  those  potent  and  fiery 
schnapps  of  which  the  Dutchman  is  so  fond,  but  one 
swallow  of  which  paralyzes  the  unaccustomed  palate 
and  brings  tears  into  the  eyes.  Yet  Dutchmen  drink 
them  without  apparent  ill-effect  —  certainly  I  know 
of  no  land  where  the  people  seem  so  hearty,  so  defiant 
of  the  years.  There  is  no  more  pleasing  sight  than 
an  old  white-haired,  mahogany- faced  Dutchman,  with 
eyes  as  bright  as  coals,  and  a  hand  as  steady  as  a 
youth's.  The  streets  are  full  of  them. 

Schiedam  is  given  over  to  the  manufacture  of 
schnapps,  and  the  air  is  scented  with  the  aroma.  One 
distillery  follows  another,  and  in  each  is  the  same 
fragrant  steam,  the  same  dimly-seen  white-capped 
figures,  the  same  great  vats  and  vessels.  We  wan- 
dered about  the  streets  for  quite  a  while,  with  a  string 
of  children  clattering  behind  staring  at  us,  and  found 
them  quaint  and  interesting.  In  one  little  junk-shop 
we  came  very  near  buying  a  great  old-fashioned,  long- 
necked  copper  milk-can ;  it  was  ridiculously  cheap  and 
very  graceful,  but  there  was  no  way  to  get  it  home 
short  of  carrying  it,  and  I  balked  at  that! 

The  portier  opened  the  door  for  us  when  we  got 
back  to  our  hotel,  and  I  paused  to  ask  him  if  the 
theatres  were  open. 


20  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  in  his  slow  and  care- 
ful English.  "  The  Casino  Varieties  has  a  very  good 
program,  with  de  la  Mar,  one  of  our  best  comedians. 
I  would  advise  that  you  go." 

We  did,  and  we  were  glad.  The  Casino  Varieties 
is  not  a  fashionable  theatre,  for  the  most  expensive 
seats  —  the  pit  stalls  and  the  front  loge  —  are  only 
a  florin,  and  the  cheapest  ones  probably  no  more  than 
a  few  cents.  But  the  audience  was  far  more  inter- 
esting to  us  than  a  fashionable  one  would  have  been, 
it  was  so  natural  and  unstudied.  In  the  pit  below 
us  a  boy  of  ten  or  twelve,  accompanied  by  his  mother, 
was  seated,  and  we  were  astounded  to  see  him  quietly 
take  from  his  pocket  and  begin  to  smoke  a  cigar 
almost  as  big  as  himself.  His  mother  did  not  seem 
to  object,  and,  indeed,  he  handled  the  cigar  as  one 
old  to  the  business. 

Not  far  from  us  were  two  couples,  one  middle- 
aged  the  other  young,  and  both  well-dressed.  The 
younger  couple  was  plainly  in  that  seventh  heaven  of 
infatuation  which  renders  its  victims  oblivious  to 
their  surroundings,  for  such  kissing,  such  cheek-pat- 
ting and  hair-smoothing  you  never  saw !  The  damsel, 
—  she  was  really  not  bad-looking  —  would  gaze 
fondly  into  the  eyes  of  her  adorer,  and  then  imprint 
a  soft  and  clinging  kiss  upon  his  lips.  I  confess  I 
thought  them  wasted  on  so  ugly  an  object.  This 
went  on  all  evening;  the  older  couple  took  it  as  a 
matter  of  course;  and  the  audience,  while  interested, 
did  not  seem  surprised. 


The  City  on  the  Rotte  21 

There  is  one  thing  which  may  always  be  expected 
in  a  Dutch  variety  show,  and  that  is  at  least  one  good 
acrobatic  turn.  This  time  there  were  two  —  one  by 
a  dancer  of  surprising  agility,  and  the  other  by  two 
young  women  on  a  flying  trapeze.  But  the  principal 
feature  of  the  entertainment  was  a  two-act  comedy  in 
which  de  la  Mar  took  the  leading  part.  We  could, 
of  course,  understand  nothing  of  the  rapid  dialogue, 
and  it  was,  I  suspect,  rather  vulgar.  But  the  acting 
was  so  pantomimic  that  we  got  almost  as  much  pleas- 
ure from  it  as  the  rest  of  the  audience.  De  la  Mar's 
face  is  one  of  the  drollest  and  most  expressive  I  ever 
saw,  resembling,  in  a  way,  the  elder  Coquelin's.  He 
is  a  little  stout  man,  and  his  manner  on  the  stage  is 
so  deliberate  and  finished  that  it  is  a  great  delight. 

Betty  had  some  letters  to  write,  when  we  got  back 
to  the  hotel,  and  I  sat  down  for  a  talk  with  the  portier, 
and  a  final  cigar.  Smoking  gets  to  be  an  obsession 
in  Holland.  Cigars  are  so  good  and  so  cheap  —  due, 
of  course,  to  Holland  owning  the  source  of  supply, 
Sumatra  —  and  they  are  displayed  so  attractively  in 
the  shop  windows,  that  one  is  always  slipping  in  and 
buying  half  a  dozen  and  then  smoking  them  one  after 
the  other.  Every  other  shop  is  a  tobacconist's,  and 
each  window  displays  more  wonderful  bargains  than 
the  last.  I  got  so,  before  long,  that  if  I  failed  to 
get  a  good  cigar  for  a  cent  I  felt  myself  cheated  — 
but  I  rarely  failed.  The  tobacconist  slips  your  cigars 
into  a  tissue  envelope,  always  leaving  out  one.  This 
one  he  presses  into  a  little  machine  which  clips  off 


22  The  Spell  of  Holland 

its  end,  and  he  then  presents  it  to  you  with  a  bow, 
so  that  you  may  commence  smoking  at  once. 

No  Dutchman  leaves  a  tobacconist's  without  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  and  most  of  them  light  a  new  cigar 
from  the  end  of  the  old  one.  This  saves  matches. 
Pipes  are  not  smoked  nearly  so  much  as  cigars  are 
—  a  fact  which  surprised  me. 

Many  tales  are  told  of  mighty  smokers,  but  the 
greatest  of  them  all  lived  here  in  Rotterdam.  His 
allowance  was  six  ounces  a  day,  an  amount  which  he 
never  exceeded  (and  always  consumed)  ;  and  he  lived 
to  the  ripe  age  of  ninety-eight.  All  the  smokers  of 
the  province  were  invited  to  his  funeral.  Each  of 
them  was  presented  with  a  pipe  and  pouch  of  tobacco 
and  was  requested  to  smoke  without  ceasing  during 
the  ceremony;  while,  at  the  dead  man's  desire,  his 
favourite  pipe,  a  large  package  of  tobacco  and  a  box 
of  matches  were  laid  ready  to  his  hand  in  the  coffin, 
because,  as  he  remarked,  "  There  is  no  telling  what 
will  happen !  " 

There  is  something  about  the  Dutch  climate  which 
provokes  to  smoking.  Perhaps  it  is  the  moisture; 
at  any  rate,  when  I  reckoned  up,  at  night,  the  num- 
ber of  cigars  I  had  smoked  during  the  day,  I  was 
alarmed,  and  thought  of  heart- failure.  But  I  never 
noticed  any  ill-effects  from  it;  and  when  I  saw  the 
rosy  old  men  going  about  the  streets  enveloped  in  a 
cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  which  had  never  left  them 
since  infancy,  I  grew  reassured.  Holland,  certainly, 
is  the  smoker's  paradise!  Salvation  Yeo  should  have 


The  City  on  the  Rotte  23 

lived  there!  Those  eloquent  words  of  his  in  praise 
of  the  herb  would  have  been  emblazoned  upon  his 
monument.  Do  you  remember  them? 

"For  when  all  things  were  made,  none  was  made  better 
than  this  same  tobacco,  to  be  a  lone  man's  companion,  a  bach- 
elor's friend,  a  hungry  man's  food,  a  sad  man's  cordial,  a 
wakeful  man's  sleep,  and  a  chilly  man's  fire,  sir;  while  for 
stanching  of  wounds,  purging  of  rheum  and  settling  of  the 
stomach,  there's  no  herb  like  unto  it  under  the  canopy  of 
heaven." 

I  conceived  quite  a  liking  for  the  portier  at  the 
Weimar.  He  had  lived  in  New  York,  and  was  plan- 
ning to  return  there. 

"  I  have  a  son,"  he  said,  "  who  will  soon  be  old 
enough  to  be  drafted  into  the  army.  I  shall  go  back 
to  America  before  that.  But  I  will  stay  here  as  long 
as  I  can.  My  wages  are  not  great,  but  I  can  live  on 
them  better  here  than  in  America.  I  have  my  own 
little  house,  and  a  garden;  that  would  not  be  possible 
in  New  York.  Besides,  I  should  have  to  start  there 
again  as  a  waiter." 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  there,  some  day,"  I  told  him ; 
and  in  future  I  shall  look  for  him  in  the  Broadway 
restaurants. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said ;  "  and  while  you  are  here, 
I  hope  I  may  be  of  use  to  you.  That  is  what  I  am 
for." 

And  he  told  me  a  story. 

Once  upon  a  time,  an  Englishman  came  to  the 
Weimar  straight  from  his  native  heath  —  the  opin- 
ionated, self-satisfied,  pig-headed  type  of  Englishman 


24 The  Spell  of  Holland 

which  one  meets  so  often  on  one's  travels.  After 
dinner  the  first  evening,  he  started  out  to  see  the  town. 

"Can  I  be  of  assistance  to  you,  sir?"  the  portier 
asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  John  Bull,  haughtily,  and  stalked 
out. 

The  hours  passed  and  he  returned  not.  Finally, 
sometime  after  midnight,  he  turned  up,  very  weary 
and  as  mad  as  a  hornet. 

"  Give  me  my  bill !  "  he  shouted.  "  I'm  going  to 
leave  —  I  won't  sleep  a  night  in  this  town !  " 

"Why,  what's  the  trouble,  sir?"  asked  the  aston- 
ished portier. 

"  Trouble !  Nobody  but  asses  live  here ;  and 
demmed  insulting  asses  at  that !  " 

"Insulting!"  repeated  the  portier.  "Oh,  no;  I 
am  sure  they  are  not  insulting!" 

"  Then  they're  idiots !  They  won't  answer  a  civil 
question !  " 

"What  question  was  it  you  asked  them,  sir?"  in- 
quired the  portier,  patiently,  determined  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  this  mystery. 

"  The  way  to  this  street,"  said  the  visitor.  "  Oh, 
I'm  no  chicken;  I  know  my  way  about.  When  I 
started  out,  I  got  the  name  of  the  street  off  the  house 
at  the  corner  and  wrote  it  on  my  cuff.  When  I  was 
ready  to  come  back,  I  stopped  a  man  and  showed  it 
to  him  —  and  what  did  he  do !  " 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  Do  —  why  he  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 


The  City  on  the  Rotte  25 

and  went  on.  I  tried  a  second,  and  he  did  the  same. 
A  third  —  and  a  fourth.  Oh,  a  lot  of  asses,  I  tell 
you!  I  never  should  have  got  back  if  it  wasn't  for 
that  big  building  over  there.  I  saw  it,  at  last,  and 
recognized  it." 

"  Let  me  see  what  you  have  on  your  cuff,  sir,"  said 
the  portier. 

Then  he,  too,  laughed,  as  he  read  the  words  "  Ver- 
boden  te  Plakken,"  —  which  means  "  Post  no  Bills !  " 


CHAPTER   III 

ALONG    THE    MERWEDE 

ROTTERDAM  is  a  convenient  centre  from  which  to 
visit  various  smaller  towns  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
one  of  these  is  Dordrecht,  or  Dort,  as  the  Dutch 
familiarly  call  it.  The  best  way  to  go  to  Dort  is  by 
boat,  for  then  one  approaches  the  town  from  the  water 
and  sees  it  in  the  aspect  made  so  familiar  by  the 
pictures  of  Albert  Cuyp.  But  we  wanted  to  get  there 
early  in  order  to  see  the  Friday  market,  so  we  went 
by  train,  reserving  the  boat  trip  for  the  return. 

It  is  only  a  twenty  minute  run  from  Rotterdam, 
and,  very  soon  after  our  arrival,  we  were  having  our 
eggs  and  coffee  at  one  of  the  little  cafes  bordering 
the  Merwe-Kade,  or  steamboat  pier,  overlooking  the 
wide  river,  which  started  on  its  career  as  the  Rhine, 
and  is  here  the  Merwede,  one  of  the  busiest  and  most 
important  in  Holland. 

It  was  this  river,  indeed,  which  made  Dort,  in  the 
old  days,  the  richest  city  in  the  land,  for  here  all 
the  imports  by  way  of  the  Rhine,  especially  Rhine 
wines,  were  unloaded  and  taxed  before  being  passed 
on  into  the  country.  This  Privilege  of  the  Staple,  as 
it  was  called,  lasted  for  some  hundreds  of  years;  but, 
at  last,  Rotterdam,  farther  down  the  river,  grew 

26 


Along  the  Merwede  27 

jealous  and  took  up  arms  about  it  and  Dort  was  com- 
pelled to  waive  the  Privilege  which  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  defend.  Since  then,  her  prestige  has 
steadily  diminished,  her  wine-cellars  are  empty,  and 
her  streets  are  silent  enough  except  on  market-day. 

We  sat  for  a  long  time  watching  the  busy  river- 
life,  and  then  went  back  to  the  market,  leaving  the 
pier  by  the  beautiful  Groothoofd-Poort,  or  city  gate, 
dating  in  its  present  form  from  1618  and  decorated 
with  fine  reliefs.  Among  them  is  the  coat-of-arms 
of  Dort,  a  milkmaid  under  her  cow,  not  a  tribute  to 
the  commercial  value  of  that  quadruped,  as  in  the 
north  of  Holland  where  the  same  device  is  used,  but 
a  remembrance  of  the  gallant  girl  who  saved  the  town 
from  surprise  and  capture  by  the  Spaniards.  For, 
starting  forth  in  the  early  morning,  three  centuries 
and  more  ago,  to  carry  her  milk  to  the  city,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  Spanish  force  lying  in  ambush  by 
the  road,  but  went  singing  on  her  way  as  though 
she  had  seen  nothing,  and  brought  the  news  of  their 
danger  to  the  city  fathers,  so  that  presently,  hearing 
the  beating  of  drums,  the  Spaniards  knew  the  town 
was  warned  and  withdrew  without  attacking  it. 

Dort's  solitary  horse-drawn  tram-car  —  paard-tram 
is  the  Dutch  of  it  —  runs  from  the  station  through 
the  town  along  a  crooked  street,  under  the  water-gate, 
and  so  to  the  pier,  its  progress  marked  by  the  inces- 
sant clanging  of  a  bell  in  the  hands  of  the  driver; 
so  that,  to  reach  the  pier,  arrivals  by  train  have  only 
to  step  on  the  tram  and  stay  on  to  the  end  of  its 


28  The  Spell  of  Holland 

journey.  But  I  advise  that  you  walk,  for  the  walk 
is  well  worth  taking.  Nowhere  else  will  you  see  such 
red  geraniums  or  such  green  grass  as  at  Dort.  Here, 
too,  just  after  you  leave  the  station,  you  come  to  a 
row  of  handsome  residences  facing  the  street,  but 
each  surrounded  by  its  narrow  canal  as  by  a  moat, 
and  each  with  a  little  bridge  going  over.  The  use  of 
a  ditch  in  place  of  a  wall  or  hedge  is  common  enough 
in  the  country,  but  not  in  cities  the  size  of  Dort. 

The  streets  are  narrow  and  crooked,  and  most  of 
the  houses  lean  over  them  so  perilously  that  they 
seem  about  to  fall;  but  we  were  assured  that  none 
has  ever  fallen  and  so,  I  suppose,  none  ever  will. 
Indeed,  the  story  goes  that  this  inclination  is  the 
result  of  design  and  not  of  chance,  and  that  the  houses 
were  built  in  this  position  in  order  to  send  the  water 
from  the  roofs  into  the  gutter  and  so  protect  the 
passer-by  below.  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  the  authen- 
ticity of  this,  for  each  building  has  an  angle  of  its 
own.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  see  a  house  three  feet 
out  of  the  perpendicular. 

Dort's  market  is  held  in  the  public  square,  about 
the  statue  of  Ary  Scheffer,  who  was  born  here,  but 
who  was  not  really  a  citizen  of  Dort  since  his  father 
was  a  German  merely  stopping  in  the  town.  He 
stands  on  his  pedestal,  palette  on  thumb,  looking  pen- 
sively at  the  row  of  houses  opposite  as  though  about 
to  paint  them.  Why  an  artist  so  inconsiderable  as 
Scheffer  should  have  been  selected  for  this  honour, 
when  Dort  was  also  the  birthplace  of  Albert  Cuyp 


Along  the  Merwede  29 

and  Nicholas  Maes  and  Ferdinand  Bol,  is  one  of  those 
mysteries  which  I  suppose  can  only  be  explained  by 
the  ineptitude  of  aldermanic  bodies. 

The  square  is  too  small  to  contain  all  the  market, 
so  it  overflows  in  each  direction  along  the  adjacent 
street,  much  to  the  inconvenience  of  the  tram-car, 
whose  bell  is  constantly  in  one's  ears.  There  was  a 
lively  crowd  eddying  around  the  booths,  each  under 
its  little  tent,  where  one  may  buy  anything  —  cigars, 
cheese,  vegetables,  post-cards,  gold-fish,  dry  goods, 
hardware,  old  books,  sheet  music,  patent  medicine, 
baked  eels,  candy,  shoes.  Each  booth-keeper  adver- 
tises the  merits  and  cheapness  of  his  wares  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  and  the  bargaining  between  buyer  and 
seller  is  most  spirited.  I  never  before  saw  such 
enormous  cauliflowers,  and  they  cost  only  five  cents 
Dutch  apiece.  The  cheese  looked  so  tempting  that 
we  bought  some  of  it  and  consumed  it  later  with  our 
lunch  and  found  it  very  good  indeed.  Also  some 
nougat,  by  far  the  best  we  got  anywhere  in  Holland. 

Dort  is  one  of  the  wettest  of  Dutch  cities.  A  great 
inundation  in  1421,  cut  her  off  from  the  mainland 
and  left  her  stranded  on  an  island  surrounded  by 
the  Merwede,  the  Maas  and  the  Waal.  Indeed,  there 
is  an  old  legend  that  the  city  itself  was  carried  bodily 
down  stream  for  some  distance  and  that  the  neigh- 
bours had  difficulty  in  finding  it  next  day.  Much  of 
the  water  from  these  encircling  rivers  flows  through 
her  streets  in  the  form  of  canals.  Or,  rather,  through 
her  alleys;  for  the  canals  are  back  of  the  houses  and 


30  The  Spell  of  Holland  ' 

not  in  front  of  them,  as  at  Delft.  The  water  laps 
against  their  walls,  and  the  tradesman  rows  along  in 
his  boat  and  delivers  his  goods  through  the  back 
windows.  The  effect  is  especially  picturesque  along 
the  main  canal,  which  bisects  the  town  from  end  to 
end,  crossed  by  innumerable  little  bridges,  and  running 
far  below  the  level  of  the  streets.  We  stopped  more 
than  once  to  look  at  it  on  our  way  to  the  Groote 
Kerk,  and  the  vistas  were  almost  worthy  of  Venice. 

We  found  the  koster  of  the  church  in  a  little  house 
huddled  between  the  wide  brick  buttresses;  he  wel- 
comed us  with  many  bows,  sold  us  two  tickets,  and 
then  opened  the  transept  door  and  invited  us  to 
enter. 

If  one  were  to  stroll  into  the  Louvre  and  come 
suddenly  upon  the  Venus  de  Milo  embellished  with 
a  coat  of  red  paint,  his  sensations,  I  imagine,  would 
be  much  the  same  as  those  he  experiences  when  first 
entering  one  of  the  old  Dutch  churches.  For  here, 
instead  of  the  impressiveness  of  gray  stone  or  the 
beauty  of  polychrome  decoration,  the  eye  encounters 
nothing  but  —  whitewash !  A  Gothic  interior,  white- 
washed !  Yet  that  is  the  tale  which  all  Dutch  churches 
have  to  tell;  and  not  only  whitewashed,  but  denuded 
and  disfigured. 

Let  me  relate  the  dreadful  story. 

The  builders  of  the  Gothic  churches  of  Holland 
suffered  a  handicap  at  the  very  outset  because  they 
had  to  work  in  brick  and  not  in  stone.  There  is  no 
building-stone  in  Holland,  since  its  soil  is  merely  the 


A    DORDRECHT    VISTA. 


Along  the  Merwede  31 

alluvium  from  the  Rhine  and  other  rivers,  and  to 
bring  from  other  countries  the  quantity  necessary  to 
build  a  cathedral  involved  a  prohibitive  expense.  An 
effort  was  usually  made  to  secure  enough  for  the 
traceries,  the  facings  of  the  buttresses  and  ornamenta- 
tion of  the  western  front,  but  even  that  was  not 
always  accomplished. 

Now  stone  is  the  natural  material  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture; almost  the  inevitable  material,  for,  without 
it,  there  can  be  none  of  that  richness  of  decoration 
which  renders  the  cathedrals  of  France  and  Belgium 
a  wonder  and  delight.  Indeed,  it  is  structurally 
necessary,  for  flying  buttresses  can  be  rightly  built 
of  nothing  else,  and  without  flying  buttresses  to  sus- 
tain the  thrust,  there  can  be  no  stone-vaulting  over 
the  nave  and  choir.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add 
that,  without  stone,  window-traceries,  where  possible 
at  all,  are  of  the  simplest  form. 

Dutch  churches,  therefore,  so  far  as  the  exterior 
is  concerned,  are  not  inviting.  They  are  merely  bare 
and  rather  shapeless  masses  of  brick,  remarkable  for 
nothing  so  much  as  for  their  size.  A  redeeming 
feature,  which  makes  for  picturesqueness,  is  the  fact 
that  little  buildings  of  all  sorts  cling  about  them, 
leaning  against  their  sides  or  huddling  between  their 
buttresses.  Some  persons  complain  of  this,  but  to 
me  the  effect  is  very  pleasing.  Looking  up  at  the 
great  mass  towering  toward  the  heavens,  one  cannot 
but  marvel  at  the  patience  with  which  these  millions 
of  clay  blocks  were  piled  one  upon  the  other,  and 


32  The  Spell  of  Holland 

one  sees  in  them  another  evidence  of  the  untiring 
industry  of  the  Dutch,  whom  no  task  appalls. 

The  interior  also  suffers;  in  the  first  place  from 
the  lack  of  groining,  usually  replaced  by  wooden 
vaulting  of  the  round  or  "  barrel  "  type.  Then  the 
pillars  of  nave  and  choir  are  round,  and  there  is  want- 
ing, in  consequence,  that  effect  of  airiness  and  upward- 
springing  which  clustered  columns  give,  especially 
when  one  of  the  columns  runs  up  to  meet  the  groin- 
ing. The  traceries  of  the  windows  are  simple  but 
sometimes  very  graceful,  and,  in  the  old  days,  when 
they  were  filled  with  painted  glass,  when  the  walls 
were  frescoed,  when  the  high  altar  stood  in  the  choir 
with  its  dim  candles  before  it,  when  the  body  of  the 
church  was  embellished  with  the  statues,  pictures  and 
other  ornaments  always  to  be  found  in  Roman  Catho- 
lic cathedrals,  —  one  can  imagine  that  under  those 
conditions  the  interior  of  such  an  edifice  would  be 
impressive  and  even  beautiful.  But,  alas!  there  are 
no  such  embellishments.  The  light  streams  untem- 
pered  through  white  glass;  the  frescoes  are  covered 
with  whitewash,  the  high  altar,  the  statues,  the  pic- 
tures have  been  swept  away;  the  church  is  cold,  and 
bare,  and  barn-like. 

It  came  to  pass  in  the  days  when  Alva  was  trying 
to  conquer  the  country  for  Spain,  one  night,  at  Ant- 
werp, a  crowd  broke  into  the  cathedral  and  swept 
it  bare;  and  in  city  after  city  throughout  the  Nether- 
lands this  madness  spread,  until  practically  every 
church  had  been  gutted  of  its  treasures.  Stained- 


Along  the  Merwede  33 

glass  was  demolished,  statues  pulled  down,  carvings 
shattered,  paintings  defaced.  Until  that  momentous 
struggle  was  decided,  these  churches  lay  wrecked. 
Then,  in  Catholic  Belgium,  some  semblance  of  their 
former  beauty  was  restored  to  them ;  but  in  Protestant 
Holland  they  were  whitewashed  and  made  to  answer, 
as  well  as  might  be,  the  needs  of  the  Dutch  Reformed 
service. 

It  was  a  makeshift  at  the  best,  for  a  church  built 
in  the  form  of  a  cross,  with  aisles  and  chapels,  is  not 
suited  to  Dutch  Reformed  ceremonial  —  or  lack  of 
it.  The  choir  was  left  empty,  that  no  use  might  be 
made  of  the  spot  where  had  stood  an  idolatrous  high 
altar.  Against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  nave  a  wooden 
pulpit  was  affixed,  and  around  this  high  wooden 
pews  were  grouped.  Frequently  wooden  partitions 
were  run  up  in  order  that  the  place  might  be  more 
easily  heated.  And  there  you  are.  I  have  gone  into 
this  matter  thus  in  detail  because  it  applies  to  nearly 
all  Dutch  churches,  and  need  be  dealt  with  only  once. 

So  it  was  with  a  real  sinking  of  the  heart  that  we 
stopped  inside  the  door  of  the  church  at  Dort  and 
looked  about  at  its  cold  interior.  And  yet  this  church 
has  points  of  beauty  and  relics  of  the  old  regime 
which  are  lacking  in  most  of  the  others.  In  the  first 
place,  it  is  one  of  the  very  few  Dutch  churches  with 
groining  and  stone-vaulting.  Then  there  remain,  in 
the  otherwise  empty  choir,  most  of  the  old  stalls; 
sadly  mutilated,  it  is  true,  and  with  their  canopies 
destroyed,  but,  nevertheless,  most  interesting  examples 


34  The  Spell  of  Holland 

of  early  sixteenth  century  carving.  They  were 
painted  by  some  vandal  at  the  same  time,  I  suppose, 
that  the  walls  were  whitewashed,  and,  while  the  paint 
has  been  removed,  the  beautiful  colour  of  the  old  oak 
is  gone.  They  are  the  work  of  one  Jan  Aertsz,  and, 
even  in  their  dilapidated  condition,  are  the  most  note- 
worthy remaining  in  Holland. 

There  is  one  feature  of  Gothic  choir-stalls  which 
I  never  fail  to  examine,  and  that  is  the  carving  under 
the  miserere  seats,  for  it  is  here  that  Gothic  humour 
revels  unchecked.  It  is  a  broad  and  Rabelaisian 
humour,  but  always  most  human.  For  those  who  do 
not  understand  the  term,  let  me  explain  that  in  each 
of  the  stalls  is  a  hinged  seat,  which  is  turned  up  when- 
ever its  occupant  is  standing.  As  these  periods  are 
very  long,  and  as  some  of  the  monks  were  old  and 
feeble,  a  little  bracket  was  placed  on  the  bottom  of 
the  seat,  projecting  far  enough,  when  the  seat  is 
turned  up,  to  afford  some  support  to  its  occupant, 
who  could  thus  go  through  the  Mass  in  a  half-stand- 
ing, half-sitting  position  less  fatiguing  than  an  un- 
supported one  would  have  been.  These  little  brackets 
are  the  miserere  seats,  and  the  carving  is  under  them. 
The  seat  must,  of  course,  be  turned  up  in  order  that 
the  carving  may  be  examined.  If  you  will  look  at 
the  picture  of  the  Haarlem  choir-stalls  opposite  page 
134,  you  will  see  what  I  mean  more  clearly  than  any 
description  can  tell  you. 

I  have  never  seen  more  satisfying  carving  than  that 
on  these  old  seats  at  Dort.  One  represents  a  minor 


Along  the  Merwede  35 

offender  with  his  legs  in  the  stocks,  but  he  is  far 
from  sad,  for  some  friend  has  supplied  him  with  a 
mammoth  stein  of  beer,  the  foam  of  which  is  beauti- 
fully executed.  Another  shows  the  prodigal  son,  in 
a  most  dejected  state,  feeding  two  razor-back  hogs. 
A  third  depicts  Delilah  at  the  moment  she  is  despoil- 
ing Samson  of  his  locks,  while  another  close  by  shows 
Jael  piercing  Sisera's  skull  with  a  nail.  Still  another 
shows  a  man  vigorously  punishing  a  boy,  by  apply- 
ing a  switch  to  the  pitifully-exposed  culprit. 

We  spent  half  an  hour  looking  at  these  carvings, 
and  admiring  their  details,  and  then  took  a  general 
look  around  the  church.  It  differs  from  most  ante- 
reformation  churches  in  being  in  the  form  of  a 
Maltese  cross,  with  nave  and  choir  each  of  five  bays. 
The  lady  chapel,  instead  of  being,  as  usual,  at  the 
extreme  east  end,  is  at  the  north  end  of  the  north 
aisle.  The  effect  is  one  of  incompleteness,  as  though 
the  work  on  the  nave  had  been  stopped  before  it  was 
finished.  The  whitewash  has  been  removed  in  places, 
laying  bare  the  old  frescoes,  and  the  shattered  traceries 
of  the  windows  are  being  restored. 

The  pulpits  of  these  churches  are  always  intri- 
cately carved,  and  the  pews  huddled  about  them  are 
usually  allotted  to  different  classes  of  the  population. 
Across  the  nave  from  the  pulpit  there  is  always  an 
elaborate  pew  for  the  burgomeester  or  mayor  and 
his  family,  and  sections  are  set  apart  for  the  church 
officers,  the  burghers  and  their  wives,  the  magistrates, 
the  military,  the  servants,  and  so  on.  Very  often 


36 The  Spell  of  Holland 

each  section,  which  is  enclosed  and  partitioned  off 
from  all  the  others,  has  painted  on  it  the  name  of  the 
class  for  which  it  is  intended.  The  poorer  and  less 
important  the  class,  the  less  comfortable  the  seats; 
but  the  best  of  them  must  be  uncomfortable  enough, 
for  they  all  have  straight  backs  of  wood,  often  with 
a  moulding  like  a  knife-edge  across  the  top.  To  go 
to  sleep  in  one  of  them  would  be  physically  impos- 
sible. 

We  asked  the  koster  if  the  burgomeester,  for  whom 
such  gorgeous  quarters  were  prepared,  was  a  regular 
attendant;  and  he  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  He 
came  back  at  me  by  asking  whether  the  burgomeester 
of  my  town  went  to  church  regularly,  and  I  was 
forced  to  confess  that  I  thought  not.  And  then  he 
sighed  and  said  that  he  supposed  burgomeesters  were 
much  the  same  all  the  world  over! 

In  one  corner  against  the  wall  was  a  pile  of  little 
wooden  boxes,  about  six  inches  high  and  eight  inches 
square,  with  a  hinged  door  at  one  end  and  a  per- 
forated top.  We  asked  what  these  were,  and  learned 
that  they  were  stoofjes,  or  foot- warmers.  We  had 
seen  them  many  times  in  Dutch  pictures  without  guess- 
ing their  use.  There  is  one,  very  carefully  painted, 
in  the  left  foreground  of  Jan  Steen's  masterpiece, 
"The  Doctor's  Visit,"  at  the  Rijks.  A  metal  or 
earthen  dish  containing  a  burning  brick  of  peat,  or 
"turf"  as  it  is  called  in  Holland,  is  slipped  inside 
the  box,  and  the  woman  sits  with  her  feet  on  it  and 
her  petticoats  over  it,  absorbing  its  grateful  warmth. 


IN    THE   CHURCH   AT   DORT. 


Along  the  Merwede  37 

Andrew  Marvell  pictures  the  scene  in  his  satire,  "  The 
Character  of  Holland  "  : 

See  but  their  mermaids,  with  their  tails  of  fish, 

Reeking  at  church  over  the  chafing-dish ! 

A  vestal  turf,  enshrined  in  earthen  ware, 

Fumes  through  the  loopholes  of  a  wooden  square ; 

Each  to  the  temple  with  these  altars  tend, 

But  still  does  place  it  at  her  western  end ; 

While  the  fat  steam  of  female  sacrifice 

Fills    the    priest's    nostrils,    and    puts    out    his    eyes. 

The  "  western  end,"  as  indicating  the  feet,  is  a 
good  piece  of  Gothic  imagery. 

Every  private  dwelling  has  these  foot-warmers,  and 
they  must  be  particularly  grateful  in  winter  because 
of  the  tiled  floors  in  most  of  the  houses.  Many  of 
them  are  real  works  of  art,  made  of  teak  wood,  and 
elegantly  carved.  They  are  provided  with  handles, 
and  it  is  no  doubt  a  quaint  and  interesting  sight  to 
see  a  congregation  gathering  in  winter,  foot-warmers 
in  hand.  What  the  odour  in  the  church  must  be  from 
all  this  smouldering  peat  can  be  imagined.  I  should 
judge,  too,  from  the  scorched  places  on  the  floors 
of  the  pews,  that  there  is  often  an  incipient  confla- 
gration, which  must  interfere  sadly  with  the  serv- 
ices. 

We  bade  good-bye  to  the  bright-eyed  old  koster, 
and  retraced  our  steps  to  the  market-place,  where  we 
had  lunch  on  the  balcony  of  a  little  cafe  overlooking 
the  square.  The  unsold  merchandise  was  being 
packed  away,  and  the  tents  rolled  up  and  loaded  upon 
little  carts,  to  be  brought  back  a  week  hence.  The 


38  The  Spell  of  Holland 

market-people  were  gathered  in  groups,  chattering,  I 
suppose,  over  the  day's  business;  and  always  Ary 
Scheffer  stood  looking  serenely  across  the  square, 
palette  on  thumb. 

We  had  a  fine  view  of  the  town  as  we  sailed  away, 
soon  afterwards,  on  the  little  boat  bound  for  Gorin- 
chem  (pronounced  Gorcum)  ;  the  picturesque  square- 
topped  tower  of  the  church,  with  its  four  great  dials, 
in  their  clumsy  frames,  so  familiar  from  Cuyp's  pic- 
tures, looming  above  it. 

The  river,  that  afternoon,  was  bright  with  craft  of 
all  sizes  and  degrees  of  picturesqueness ;  great  ship- 
yards lined  the  banks;  here  and  there,  whole  flotillas 
of  barges,  anchored  together  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  awaited  the  call  of  traffic.  The  boat  stopped 
at  this  landing  and  that  —  at  Benedenveer,  Midden- 
veer,  Giessendam  —  little  villages  built  along  facing 
the  river,  with  children  playing  on  the  watersteps  and 
women  going  up  and  down  them  with  pails  of  water 
for  the  unceasing  scrubbing.  They  were  scrubbing 
windows  and  doorsteps,  the  outsides  of  the  houses, 
the  bricks  of  the  sidewalks,  and  even  the  cobbles  of 
the  streets.  Scrubbed  furniture  was  standing  out  to 
dry;  rugs  from  which  came  no  speck  of  dust  were 
being  violently  beaten  and  shaken.  It  is  a  mania. 
All  over  Holland  it  is  a  mania.  One  is  constantly 
stepping  aside  to  avoid  the  rills  of  water  resulting 
from  this  scrubbing.  The  beating  of  rugs  is  an 
accompaniment  to  all  the  other  noises  of  the  country. 
It  never  ceases. 


Along  the  Merwede  39 

Scores  and  scores  of  brown  nets  were  stretched 
to  dry  along  the  banks,  for  this  is  a  famous  salmon- 
fishing  neighbourhood;  and  dozens  of  men  and  boys, 
rod  in  hand,  were  sitting  on  the  piers  and  along  the 
river-wall  patiently  watching  diminutive  corks ;  though 
we  saw  nothing  caught  except  one  small  eel.  Between 
the  villages,  the  banks  were  covered  with  a  rank 
growth  of  reeds,  tall  grasses  and  bulrushes.  The 
reeds  are  used  for  thatching,  and  we  saw  great  bundles 
of  them,  brown  and  dry,  piled  up  in  the  yards  of 
the  dealers. 

It  was  at  Giessendam  that  we  first  noticed  a  phe- 
nomenon, which  we  saw  many  times  thereafter  — 
trees  trained  fan-wise  to  form  a  sort  of  aerial  hedge 
close  before  the  upper  stories  of  the  houses.  We  did 
not  know  at  the  time  how  it  was  done,  but  we  saw 
the  modus  operandi  afterwards.  The  trees  are 
planted  about  a  yard  in  front  of  the  house,  and  then 
a  strong  framework  is  built  between  them  to  which 
the  branches  are  trained  with  a  patience  almost  Japa- 
nese, so  that  they  all  grow  either  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left.  When  the  tree  has  grown  quite  large,  the 
framework  is  taken  down,  and  year  by  year  there- 
after the  trees  are  trimmed,  until  they  form  a  close 
screen  before  the  upper  story  of  the  house  —  a  screen 
frequently  not  over  a  foot  thick  and  quite  perfect. 
If  there  is  a  window  in  the  upper  story,  a  correspond- 
ing opening  is  cut  in  the  screen.  The  effect  is  most 
peculiar  and  picturesque.  I  have  seen  a  few  two- 
storied  screens  of  this  kind  —  first  the  tree-trunks, 


40  The  Spell  of  Holland 

then  the  screen  of  branches  in  front  of  the  first 
story;  then  another  stretch  of  trunk  and  then  the 
screen  in  front  of  the  second  story.  Artifice  can  no 
further  go. 

At  Giessendam,  just  back  of  the  landing,  is  a  little 
inn  I  should  like  to  visit;  a  quieter  place  I  cannot 
imagine,  and  the  effect  of  quiet  and  seclusion  is 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  it  has  one  of  these  aerial 
screens  all  around  it,  with  an  opening  here  and 
there  for  a  window.  Beside  it  was  a  most  pictur- 
esque stable-yard,  and,  in  the  door,  a  white-capped, 
red-cheeked  juffrouw  to  make  the  stranger  wel- 
come! 

It  took  us  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half  to  reach 
Gorinchem,  a  clean  little  town,  especially  interesting 
for  its  old  houses  of  stone  and  brick,  with  mosaic 
decorations,  very  odd  and  charming.  Here,  too,  we 
first  noticed  the  gayly-painted  wooden  canopies  over 
the  windows,  which  we  found  afterwards  in  every 
small  town  and  in  many  of  the  large  ones,  and  whose 
use  I  was  never  able  to  understand.  I  concluded, 
finally,  that  they  had  no  use,  but  were  placed  there 
for  ornament.  How  ideas  of  ornament  vary!  We 
walked  around  to  the  church,  with  its  great  square 
brick  tower,  all  tilted  to  one  side,  and  ornamented 
with  beautifully-carved  stone  trimmings.  But  we  did 
not  go  in.  A  glimpse,  through  a  window,  of  the  bare 
and  whitewashed  interior  was  enough. 

It  was  to  Gorinchem  that  Hugo  Grotius  was 
brought  in  a  box  from  the  castle  of  Loevenstein,  a 


Along  the  Merwede  41 

little  way  up  the  river,  where  he  had  been  imprisoned 
• —  a  method  of  escape  devised  by  his  wife  and  admira- 
bly carried  out;  and  it  was  from  here  that  he  set 
forth  in  disguise  for  Antwerp,  never  to  return  to  his 
native  land  until  brought  back  to  be  buried  in  the 
church  at  Delft. 

We  had  tea  on  a  little  vine-embowered,  geranium- 
bordered  balcony  overlooking  the  harbour,  where  we 
watched  two  men  poling  a  great  barge  from  one  side 
to  the  other,  with  incredible  exertion.  The  man  takes 
his  station  near  the  prow,  drops  a  long,  spiked  pole 
to  the  river-bottom,  places  the  other  end  against  his 
shoulder,  leans  his  weight  on  it,  and  walks  toward 
the  stern  of  the  boat.  The  pressure  against  the 
shoulder  must  be  something  terrific,  but,  even  at  the 
best,  the  boat  moves  only  a  foot  or  two.  When  he 
arrives  at  the  stern,  he  adjusts  the  rudder,  and  then 
goes  back  for  another  push.  There  may  be  more 
fatiguing  labour,  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is;  and 
this  is  going  on  all  over  Holland  from  morning  till 
night,  the  women  lending  a  hand  —  or  shoulder  — 
at  need! 

The  ringing  of  a  bell  at  the  landing  told  us  that 
the  boat  was  ready  to  start  on  the  return  trip,  and 
we  hastened  to  get  on  board.  The  sun  was  just  set- 
ting as  we  reached  Dort,  and,  as  we  swung  out  again 
into  the  river  for  the  run  to  Rotterdam,  the  sky  was 
painted  red  and  purple,  which  the  river  was  a  mirror 
to  reflect.  We  were  in  new  country,  now  —  beauti- 
ful, well-kept  country  —  stopping  at  Papendrecht  — 


42  The  Spell  of  Holland 

where,  just  opposite  the  landing,  is  a  beautiful  little 
house  I  know  I  could  be  happy  in  —  and  at  other 
villages  with  many-syllabled  names.  The  river  traf- 
fic is  very  heavy,  for  this  is  the  main  artery  of 
southern  Holland,  and  the  Fop  Smith  Company, 
which  controls  the  passenger  steamers,  proudly  an- 
nounces that  it  carries  over  a  million  passengers 
yearly.  It  deserves  to,  for  its  steamers  are  very  com- 
fortable and  well-appointed,  and  its  fares  surprisingly 
low.  A  first-class  ticket  from  Gorinchem  to  Rot- 
terdam, a  distance  of  about  thirty-five  miles,  taking 
three  hours  to  cover,  costs  seventy-five  cents  Dutch, 
or  about  thirty  cents  American. 

We  had  a  perfect  entry  into  Rotterdam,  whose 
lights  swung  into  view  miles  ahead,  with  a  great 
electric  sign  gleaming  atop  the  Witte  Huis,  the  high- 
est private  building  in  Europe,  —  a  ten-storied  apart- 
ment house,  reaching  the  unprecedented  altitude  of 
one  hundred  and  thirty  feet.  It  was  just  opposite 
our  hotel,  and  had  been  pointed  out  to  us  with  much 
pride  by  the  portier.  "  Though,"  he  remarked,  dep- 
recatingly,  "  you  have  higher  ones  in  New  York !  " 
Sir  Thomas  Lipton  has  secured  the  top  of  this  giant 
for  his  own,  and  "  Lipton  Thee "  was  spelled  out 
across  the  sky  in  gigantic  letters,  over  and  over,  as 
we  glided  down  the  river. 

The  full  moon  was  sailing  up  the  sky,  and  sent 
a  broad  band  of  silver  light  over  the  dancing  water. 
Every  lamp,  every  light  at  prow  and  masthead  of  the 
innumerable  boats,  was  reflected  in  it,  and  we  seemed 


43 


drifting  into  fairy-land.  But  the  bell  jingled,  the 
boat  bumped  gently  against  the  wharf,  ropes  were 
made  fast,  the  gang-plank  run  out,  and  we  were  again 
on  the  cobbles  of  Rotterdam. 


CHAPTER    IV 

FIRST   LESSONS   IN   DUTCH 

No  one  should  visit  Holland  without  Motley  in 
his  head  and  Baedeker  in  his  pocket.  Without 
Motley,  you  will  lose  much  of  the  interest  of  nearly 
every  town  you  visit,  for  they  all  had  a  part,  and 
usually  a  tragic  one,  in  that  mighty  struggle  which 
resulted  in  Dutch  independence.  Without  Baedeker 
you  can't  find  your  way  about  —  unless  you  engage 
a  guide  or  trust  yourself  to  the  intelligence  of  a  cab- 
driver  —  a  depth  to  which  I  am  firmly  convinced  no 
self-respecting  person  will  descend.  For  Baedeker  I 
have  an  admiration  the  most  profound.  He  is  all  but 
omniscient;  and  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame 
him  if  he  sometimes  mistakes  his  right  hand  for  his 
left.  I  often  do! 

Let  me  add  here  that  this  little  volume  is  neither 
a  history  nor  a  guide-book,  and,  in  writing  it,  I  am 
taking  it  for  granted  that  you  know  your  Motley,  and 
have  your  Baedeker  ready  to  hand. 

Already  we  are  picking  up  some  Dutch  words,  and 
we  have  found  out  that  Dutch  sometimes  curiously 
resembles  English.  "  Heet  water  "  is  hot  water  and 
is  pronounced  "hate  vater;"  "bagage"  is  baggage; 
"  bed  "  is  bed.  Bed-room  is,  however,  "  slaapkamer  " 

44 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  45 

or  sleep-chamber  —  a  nice  distinction.  But  some 
words  are  surprisingly  different.  Breakfast,  for  in- 
stance, is  "  ontbijt."  The  word  has  a  most  uncanny 
appearance,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  we  realized 
that  a  door  with  "  Ontbijtkamer  "  on  it  indicated  the 
entrance  to  the  breakfast-room. 

The  time-table  tells  us  that  a  "  spoorweg  "  is  a  rail- 
way, and  a  "  boot  "  a  boat.  A  "  stoomboot  "  is,  of 
course,  a  steamboat.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  in 
Dutch  oo  does  not  take  the  sound  it  does  with  us, 
as  in  shoot,  but  the  long  6  sound.  Thus  "  boot " 
is  pronounced  boat.  The  inquiry  which  you  will  have 
oftenest  to  repeat  is  to  ask  the  way  to  your  destina- 
tion, whatever  it  may  be.  At  first  we  were  content 
simply  to  name  the  destination  and  permit  our  in- 
formant to  infer  we  wished  to  get  there.  Now  we 
have  grown  more  ambitious  and  have  added  four 
words  to  the  inquiry  — "  Hoe  ga  ik  naar,"  which 
means,  "  How  do  I  go  to."  "  Hoe  ga  ik  naar  de 
stoomboot  naar  Rotterdam,"  for  instance.  That  may 
not  be  good  Dutch,  but  it  seems  to  be  intelligible. 
The  Dutch  word  for  "  the,"  by  the  way,  makes  one 
smile.  For  masculine  and  feminine  nouns  it  is  "  de  " ; 
but  for  neuter  nouns,  it  contains  the  same  letters 
as  our  "  the,"  only,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  they 
have  been  juggled  into  "  het." 

We  are  also  getting  accustomed  to  the  use  of  "  ij  " 
for  y.  There  is  no  y  in  the  Dutch  alphabet  —  the 
ij  has  never  coalesced.  Consequently  bakery  is 
"  bakkerij,"  and  a  dairy  is  a  "  melkerrij,"  or  milkery, 


46  The  Spell  of  Holland 

which  proves  that  the  Dutch  do  not  coin  words  un- 
necessarily. The  remarkable  word,  "  maatschappij  " 
is  very  common  on  sign-boards,  and  it  puzzled  us  for 
a  long  time ;  but  we  got  the  key  in  "  mateship,"  or 
"  comradeship,"  as  we  would  say,  partnership  or  com- 
pany. What  misled  us  at  first  is  that,  alas,  in  our 
companies  there  is  so  little  idea  of  comradeship! 

There  are  some  articles  of  food,  too,  which  it  is 
well  to  know  the  names  of.  Cheese  is  easy  —  "  kaas." 
Coffee  is  "  kaffie."  Milk  is  "  melk  "  —  pronounced 
in  two  syllables,  "  mel-ek."  The  Dutch  do  not  seem 
to  be  able  to  curve  their  tongues  to  make  one  syllable 
of  a  vowel  followed  by  the  letter  1.  Half  is  "  hal-ef," 
Delft  is  "  Del-eft,"  and  so  on.  We  had  great  fun, 
one  evening,  trying  to  teach  a  pretty  waitress  to  say 
milk,  short  and  sharp  in  one  syllable.  But  she 
couldn't  do  it. 

It  is  difficult  to  recognize  the  Irish  potato  in  "  aard- 
appellen,"  or  "  earth-apples,"  and  curious  to  reflect 
that  the  Dutch  have  hit  upon  the  same  descriptive 
definition  as  the  French,  though  superficially  "  aard- 
appellen  "  looks  little  enough  like  "  pommes  de  terre." 
For  a  long  time  we  were  unable  to  get  pancakes  for 
breakfast,  until  we  stumbled  upon  the  Dutch  word, 
"  pannankoeken."  Now  we  have  pancakes  whenever 
we  want  them,  which  is  often,  for  Dutch  pancakes 
are  very  good. 

And  the  strawberries !  "  Aardbezie  "  it  is  in  Dutch 
—  "  earth-berry  "  —  remember  that  word !  There 
never  were  such  strawberries.  Bishop  Berkeley  re- 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  47 

marked,  some  two  hundred  years  ago,  that  God  could 
doubtless  have  made  a  better  berry  than  the  straw- 
berry, if  He  had  put  his  mind  to  it,  but  He  never  did. 
And  it  is  in  Holland  that  human  culture  has  brought 
this  divine  delicacy  to  perfection.  The  middle  of 
June  sees  the  real  beginning  of  the  season,  which  lasts 
about  a  month,  and  it  is  worth  while  to  plan  to  visit 
Holland  at  that  time,  if  only  for  those  incomparable 
berries.  They  are  enormous,  a  perfect  red,  and  the 
most  luscious  you  ever  tasted,  melting,  juicy,  and 
so  sweet  that  sugar  is  unnecessary. 

Which  is  as  well,  for  sugar  is  expensive  in  Holland 
and  therefore  dealt  out  charily.  The  government  tax 
is  something  like  two  hundred  per  cent  —  hence  the 
vigilance  of  the  customs!  Few  hotels  allow  more 
than  two  lumps  of  sugar  to  a  cup  of  coffee.  If  you 
want  more  than  that,  it  is  an  extra  which  must  be 
asked  for  and  often  paid  for.  Except  at  the  Hotel 
de  1' Europe  at  Antwerp,  which  is  just  across  the 
Scheldt  in  Belgium  and  so  outside  this  book,  but  a 
good  story  goes  anywhere! 

Once  upon  a  time,  not  so  very  long  ago,  there 
arrived  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe  an  American  who 
had  formed  the  habit  of  spoiling  his  coffee  with  three 
lumps  of  sugar.  At  each  meal,  therefore,  he  asked 
for  more  sugar.  He  took  four  meals  at  the  hotel, 
and  when  his  bill  was  rendered  he  found  that  he  had 
been  charged  one  franc  extra  for  those  four  lumps. 
He  paid  without  a  protest,  and  went  out,  and  came 
back  presently  carrying  a  great  sack  of  sugar. 


48  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  take  this,  and  whenever  any 
of  my  countrymen  come  here  and  ask  for  an  extra 
lump  of  sugar,  give  it  to  them  out  of  this,  without 
charge." 

Monsieur  the  proprietor  promised  that  he  would. 
So  if  you  are  an  American,  and  delay  your  arrival 
at  Antwerp  not  too  long,  you  can  get  an  extra  lump 
of  sugar  for  nothing  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe. 

By  all  means  spend  a  day  at  Gouda,  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  brightest  of  Dutch  towns.  You  can  get 
a  round  trip  ticket  from  Rotterdam,  going  by  rail 
and  returning  by  river,  second-class  on  the  train  and 
first-class  on  the  boat,  for  eighty-five  cents  Dutch 
—  a  cheap  trip,  surely.  It  is  about  twelve  miles  from 
Rotterdam,  and  the  train  runs  through  a  rich  and 
beautiful  country,  with  luxuriant  fields,  and  innu- 
merable canals.  To  the  left,  you  will  see  the  great 
Zuidplas-Polder,  a  polder  being  the  bottom  of  a 
lake  which  has  been  pumped  dry.  There  are  many 
thousands  of  acres  of  such  reclaimed  land  in  Holland, 
and  it  is  the  most  fertile  in  the  country.  Polders  are 
always  laid  out  with  rule  and  line,  the  rectangular 
fields  divided  by  little  ditches,  and  bearing  every 
variety  of  crop. 

Gouda,  which  is  pronounced  "  Howda,"  is  charac- 
teristically Dutch,  it  is  so  quiet  and  so  clean.  And 
yet  not  clean  enough  to  suit  the  women  who  live  there, 
for  they  were  busily  engaged  that  Saturday  morning 
scrubbing  and  scraping  and  scouring  it.  Saturday  is 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  49 

always  a  great  cleaning  day  all  over  Holland,  because 
it  will  not  be  possible  to  clean  things  again  until 
Monday.  And  Monday  is  also  a  great  cleaning  day, 
because,  of  course,  nothing  has  been  cleaned  since 
Saturday. 

So  the  good  wives  of  Gouda,  assisted  by  all  the 
servants,  were  out  in  force  that  morning,  and  the 
streets  ran  with  water.  Water  was  everywhere, 
trickling  down  the  house-fronts,  running  out  the 
doors,  splashing  over  the  sidewalks.  The  women, 
their  skirts  tucked  up,  their  sleeves  rolled  back,  their 
faces  flushed  with  exertion  and  set  in  a  kind  of  frenzy, 
come  and  go,  carrying  great  pails  of  water.  The 
pails  are  of  copper  and  are  painted  red  inside  —  a 
note  of  colour.  The  water  is  splashed  over  the  house- 
fronts,  and  dashed  over  the  pavements;  through  half- 
open  doors  we  can  see  that  the  furniture  has  all  been 
removed  while  the  floors  and  walls  of  the  rooms  are 
being  scrubbed.  The  women  climb  ladders,  hang 
suspended  through  open  windows,  strain  and  twist 
and  perform  feats  almost  .acrobatic,  for  the  whole 
front  of  the  house  must  be  polished  with  damp  cloths. 
Then  the  pavement  must  be  wiped  up,  the  windows 
cleaned  until  they  shine,  the  door-knob  and  bell-pull, 
the  very  nails  of  the  door  burnished  until  they  glitter 
like  spots  of  gold  and  silver.  All  the  rugs  must  be 
brought  out  and  beaten,  and  the  furniture  wiped  off 
before  it  is  set  in  place  again. 

It  was  a  never-failing  source  of  delight  to  us  to 
watch  the  way  in  which  a  rug  is  beaten.  A  maid 


50  The  Spell  of  Holland 

brings  it  out,  slams  it  down  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
then  attacks  it  with  a  beater  made  of  cane.  The 
attack  is  vigorous  and  even  vicious;  the  lusty  whacks 
sound  like  the  rapid  reports  of  a  gatling  gun,  and 
they  continue  for  a  long  time.  But  never  did  we 
see  a  speck  of  dust  fly  from  any  rug. 

Large  rugs  receive  a  different  sort  of  treatment, 
even  more  drastic.  A  woman  takes  hold  of  either 
end,  and  stretching  the  rug  between  them,  they  pull 
back  and  throw  it  upward  with  a  sharp  report.  It 
is  quite  a  trick,  I  fancy,  and  it  certainly  snaps  the 
dust  out,  if  there  is  any  present.  More  than  once 
have  I  been  awakened  by  strange  sounds  outside  the 
window,  like  the  measured  and  regular  reports  of  a 
pistol.  The  first  time,  I  arose  and  looked  out  to 
see  if  there  was  a  duel  in  progress;  but  it  was  only 
a  duel  against  dirt.  How  many  times  have  I  caught 
this  sound  echoing  over  the  countryside  or  rising 
above  the  other  noises  of  a  busy  street,  and  stopped 
to  admire  the  dexterity  with  which  the  rug  was 
handled ! 

One  is  apt  to  suspect  exaggeration  in  the  accounts 
of  this  frenzy  for  cleanliness  which  burns  in  the 
breast  of  every  Dutch  woman;  but  when  he  has 
seen  it  he  knows  that  it  is  incapable  of  exaggeration. 
And  as  I  write  these  lines,  one  of  the  phenomena 
of  my  boyhood  is  suddenly  explained  to  me.  Not 
far  from  where  we  lived  there  was  a  woman  who, 
every  Saturday,  carried  all  her  furniture  out  into 
the  yard  and  scrubbed  her  house  from  top  to  bottom. 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  51 

The  stone  before  the  front  door  had  been  scrubbed 
almost  away,  and  I  remember  watching  her  patiently 
wiping _out  the  dust  between  the  slats  of  the  shutters. 
Not  until  this  minute  have  I  understood  it;  but  now 
I  realize  that  she  was  Dutch. 

The  Dutch  idea  seems  to  be  that  a  house  should  be 
soaped  and  sponged  and  rubbed  like  a  person.  As 
M.  de  Amicis  puts  it,  it  is  not  cleaning,  it  is  making 
a  toilette. 

At  Gouda,  as  at  all  small  Dutch  towns,  we  made 
our  way  first  to  the  market-place,  for  the  market- 
place is  always  the  centre  of  interest.  Most  towns 
have  grown  up  about  a  market-place;  the  oldest 
buildings  look  down  upon  it,  the  town-hall,  the  weigh- 
house,  the  church;  the  best  shops  and  brightest' 
restaurants  are  grouped  about  it;  one  day  in  every 
week,  and  sometimes  oftener,  its  cobbles  are  covered 
by  little  booths  for  the  market;  in  the  summer  eve- 
nings, the  town  band  assembles  here  for  the  weekly 
or  semi- weekly  concert;  and  from  first  to  last  it 
continues  to  be  the  centre  of  the  town's  life. 

The  square  at  Gouda  is  very  interesting  and 
characteristic.  In  the  middle  of  it  stands  a  gay  little 
white  stadhuis,  very  tall  and  very  narrow,  with  a 
roof  all  pinnacles  and  stepped  gables,  mounting  to 
a  slender  tower.  A  double  flight  of  steps  lead  to  the 
door,  ornamented  with  sculptured  figures  in  every 
crevice. 

Back  of  it  is  the  old  weigh-house,  with  painted 
shutters,  the  arms  of  Holland  under  the  gable,  and 


52  The  Spell  of  Holland 

a  remarkable  relief  over  the  central  door  showing  a 
large  beam-scale  in  operation,  with  an  interested  group 
looking  on.  The  square  is  surrounded  by  little  shops, 
and  must  be  an  animated  place  on  market-days. 

A  little  farther  on  is  the  church,  reached  by  a 
narrow  passage  between  quaint  old  houses,  with  the 
Manse  on  one  side  and  the  koster's  dwelling  huddling 
among  the  buttresses  on  the  other.  No  lover  of  "  The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth  "  can  enter  this  little  court 
without  a  quickening  of  the  pulse,  for  it  was  here 
that  Gerhardt  Eliassoen  found  shelter  at  last;  it  was 
here  that  he  and  Margaret  won  peace  in  labouring 
for  others,  and  it  is  in  Gouda  cemetery  that  they 
lie  buried  in  one  grave. 

The  church  is  the  usual  great  pile  of  brick,  bare 
and  grim  without  and  white-washed  within,  with  ugly 
barrel-vaulting,  and  scant  round  pillars,  and  carved 
pulpit  and  huddled  pews.  For  one  thing,  however, 
it  is  remarkable  —  by  some  miracle,  its  stained  glass 
has  been  preserved,  and  the  coloured  light  which  filters 
through  it  lends  a  certain  mystery  and  charm  to  its 
gaunt  outlines. 

Most  of  the  glass  dates  from  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  was  given  to  the  church  by 
various  municipalities  and  great  men,  so  that  coats- 
of-arms  and  heraldic  devices  and  even  portraits  of 
the  donors  are  intertwined  with  scriptural  scenes. 
Philip  II.  of  Spain,  for  instance,  gave  one  of  the 
windows,  and  his  portrait  appears  in  its  representa- 
tion of  the  last  supper  —  a  masterpiece  of  irony. 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  53 

The  windows  seem  to  me  striking  rather  than  beauti- 
ful, possessing  a  certain  richness  and  depth  of  tone, 
but  too  confused  and  crowded  with  action,  like  some 
of  Rubens's  canvases.  But  I  am  no  judge,  and  can 
only  record  my  individual  impression. 

There  is  a  bosky  little  park  back  of  the  church, 
with  a  placid  canal  running  around  it.  Farther  on 
is  quite  a  large  canal,  in  which  many  boys  and  men 
were  fishing  for  roach.  Betty  is  a  devotee  of  the 
rod,  and  I  gave  one  of  the  boys  a  few  coppers  to 
let  her  fish  for  awhile.  Sour  bread  is  used  as  bait, 
and  has  a  way  of  coming  off  the  hook,  so  that  fre- 
quent renewals  are  necessary.  Our  youngster  was 
most  economical  of  his  bread  and  the  pieces  he  put 
on  the  hook  were  almost  invisible.  One  of  the  boys 
had  caught  a  few  minute  fish,  and  had  them  in  one 
of  his  wooden  shoes,  half  filled  with  water.  But 
Betty  got  not  even  a  bite. 

We  loitered  about  the  little  town  for  quite  a  while, 
looking  at  the  houses,  smiling  and  nodding  in  answer 
to  the  smiles  and  nods  we  got  on  every  side  from 
the  friendly  people,  the  object  of  much  good-natured 
curiosity.  Betty  was  wearing  a  close-fitting  sweater 
and  this  seemed  to  draw  all  eyes  and  occasion 
animated  discussion  everywhere.  Dutch  women  en- 
deavour to  conceal  the  lines  of  the  figure,  and  for  this 
purpose  wear  stays  that  are  straight  up  and  down, 
and  sometimes  a  tight  bandage  wrapped  around  and 
around  the  body.  They  have  no  waists,  and  their 
habit  of  wearing  ten  or  twelve  petticoats,  one  over 


54  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

the  other,  has  the  effect  of  raising  their  hips  'to  a 
point  not  very  far  below  their  arm-pits.  In  con- 
sequence, they  are  scant  above  and  voluminous  below. 

I  suppose  Betty's  sweater  and  straight  walking- 
skirt  revolted  their  sense  of  propriety.  At  any  rate, 
they  gathered  in  doorways  and  stared,  excitedly 
calling  other  members  of  the  family  to  see  the  ex- 
hibition; while  children  scuttled  forward  to  shout 
the  glad  tidings  of  the  approaching  spectacle.  The 
excitement  was  not  allayed  until  Betty  slipped  on 
her  raincoat. 

A  peculiar  feature  of  Dutch  towns  is  the  fact  that 
the  side-walks  seem  to  be  considered  private  prop- 
erty, and  are  shut  off  by  little  railings  or  fences  of 
iron  or  brass,  or  sometimes  by  a  festooned  chain. 
Each  householder  has  the  walk  in  front  of  his  house 
railed  off  in  this  way.  Consequently  one  is  forced 
to  walk  in  the  street,  and  the  cobbles  are  anything 
but  pleasant.  .  Klinkers,  which  are  little  hard  bricks, 
are  used  sometimes  for  the  pavement.  They  are  set 
on  edge  and  even  arranged  in  patterns  of  yellow 
and  red.  The  side-walks  are  more  elaborate,  usually 
of  tile  or  coloured  stone,  laid  in  mosaic.  They  are 
the  pride  of  the  housewives,  and  the  objects  of  in- 
cessant scrubbing.  But  they  are  plainly  intended  for 
ornament  and  not  for  use. 

We  made  our  way  to  the  pier,  at  last,  and  clambered 
aboard  the  little  boat  for  the  journey  down  to  Rotter- 
dam. It  was  the  pleasantest  trip  imaginable,  for  the 
river  winds  in  and  out,  sometimes  forming  a  regular 


First  Lessons  in  Dutch  55 

letter  S,  around  the  curves  of  which  careful  steering 
is  required.  I  watched  a  sail-boat  beating  around 
these  curves,  and  a  delicate  bit  of  seamanship  it  was. 
Long  lines  of  loaded  barges  were  being  towed  down 
to  Rotterdam,  and  to  get  these  around  the  bends  in 
the  river  was  also  a  delicate  art,  for  they  would 
frequently  be  pointing  in  two  or  three  different 
directions. 

We  saw  our  first  stork  at  Oudekerk,  standing  con- 
templatively on  one  leg  at  the  edge  of  a  great  nest 
on  the  rear  gable  of  a  church.  Just  below  was  an- 
other nest  with  the  mother  and  three  young  ones  in 
it,  and  still  further  down,  a  third  nest,  also  on  a 
church  gable.  Some  of  the  churches  were  flying  flags 
to  indicate  that  a  wedding  was  in  progress. 

As  we  gazed  to  right  and  left  across  the  low 
country,  we  realized  for  the  first  time  the  real  hollow- 
ness  of  "  Hollow-land,"  for  the  river  was  at  least 
twenty  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  land,  and  we 
could  just  see  the  roofs  and  gables  of  the  houses 
built  along  it  peeping  above  the  bank. 

The  Dutch  are  great  consumers  of  brick,  and  vast 
quantities  are  made  along  this  stretch  of  river.  We 
passed  yard  after  yard  with  long  rows  of  new-made 
bricks  stacked  up  to  dry.  Most  of  the  work  is  done 
by  hand;  and  gangs  of  labourers  were  carrying  the 
heavy  clay  from  the  scows  to  the  moulding-houses 
in  shoulder-baskets,  each  holding  perhaps  a  hundred 
pounds.  Some  of  these  carriers,  all  soiled  and  clay- 
bedaubed,  were  women  —  young  women,  for  old 


56  The  Spell  of  Holland 

ones  could  not  have  stood  it  for  an  hour.  And 
everywhere  other  women,  more  fortunate  than  those 
poor  bedraggled  slaves  of  the  clay-pits,  in  that  they 
had  a  house  to  look  after  and  presumably  a  family 
to  attend  to,  were  dipping  up  the  water  in  huge 
buckets  and  scrubbing  the  houses  and  steps  and 
pavements  and  furniture  and  household  utensils. 

We  got  back  to  Rotterdam  in  time  for  the  Satur- 
day night  market,  which  stretched  for  blocks  along 
one  of  the  widest  streets.  Everybody  was  out  for 
the  evening,  and  the  streets  were  crowded;  —  little 
soldiers  with  red-cheeked  girls  on  their  arms;  boys 
calmly  puffing  at  great  cigars;  bright-eyed,  ruddy- 
cheeked  old  men;  old  women  with  faces  like  withered 
apples.  We  walked  past  the  towering  pile  of  the 
Groote  Kerk  for  a  look  at  it  in  the  twilight,  and 
then  about  the  streets,  watching  the  people,  looking 
in  the  shop-windows,  stopping  at  a  cafe,  savouring  to 
the  full  all  these  strange  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells.  It  was  a  good-natured  crowd,  as  every 
crowd  in  Holland  is,  and  the  streets  were  thronged 
until  late  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  V 

TRAMS  AND   TREKSCHUITS 

IF  one  is  modest  in  one's  needs  and  content  to 
travel  with  light  luggage,  it  is  very  easily  managed 
in  Holland,  for  a  bag  can  be  sent  ahead  by  train 
from  one  town  to  the  next  for  about  ten  cents,  and 
the  traveller  is  free  to  follow  leisurely  by  tram  or 
trekschuit,  and  to  stop  off  wherever  he  pleases.  Now 
when  one  is  travelling,  to  be  free  of  luggage  is  to 
be  care-free,  and  is  worth  some  sacrifice. 

Not  that  any  great  sacrifice  is  necessary.  One  soon 
finds  out  how  few  the  really  essential  things  are  — 
essential,  that  is,  to  cleanliness  and  comfort.  A  trunk 
may  be  used  as  a  source  of  supplies  and  sent  from 
one  large  city  to  another;  but  for  day-to-day  travel- 
ling, a  suitcase  for  each  person  is  amply  sufficient. 
More  than  that  is  a  nuisance. 

One  never  suspects  how  many  travellers  are  slaves 
to  their  luggage  until  one  gets  to  Europe  and  sees 
the  poor,  distracted  creatures  searching  through  great 
piles  of  trunks  in  the  stations  or  arguing  with  gold- 
laced  officials,  who  understand  not  one  word  in  ten 
of  what  is  said  to  them,  and  who  wish  to  understand 
not  even  that.  Many  people  prepare  for  a  European 
trip  as  though  it  were  wildest  Africa  they  were  going 

57 


58  The  Spell  of  Holland 

to  penetrate  —  a  savage  country  where  none  of  the 
trappings  of  civilization  could  be  obtained,  and  where 
laundries  were  unknown.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
increasing  disgust  with  which,  as  our  journey  pro- 
gressed, Betty  and  I  contemplated  the  huge  pile  of 
handkerchiefs  we  had  brought  along,  nor  the  weeding- 
out  process  which  resulted  in  our  getting  everything 
we  needed  for  day-to-day  travelling  into  one  bag 
for  both  of  us. 

Economy  in  luggage  means  economy  of  time  and 
temper,  to  say  nothing  of  economy  of  money,  for 
baggage  is  an  expensive  luxury  in  Europe,  where 
every  piece  which  you  cannot  carry  with  you  into 
your  compartment  must  be  weighed  and  paid  for. 
One  doesn't  mind  paying  for  what  one  needs,  or  wants, 
or  gets  pleasure  from,  but  I  know  of  no  reflection 
more  provoking  than  that  one  is  wasting  time  and 
money  dragging  a  lot  of  useless  luggage  about  Europe 
with  him. 

Oir  stay  at  Rotterdam  was  finished,  and  sending 
our  bags  on  to  Delft  by  train,  we  embarked  at  noon 
on  Sunday  on  a  tiny  steamboat  which  plied  along 
the  narrowest  of  canals.  The  seats  were  camp-chairs 
arranged  in  two  rows  on  top  of  the  low  cabin,  and 
they  were  all  taken,  for  Sunday  is  a  holiday  with 
the  Dutch  and  they  make  the  most  of  it  —  especially 
when  it  is  as  bright  and  pleasant  as  that  Sunday  was. 
The  people  were  all  dressed  in  their  best  —  the  men 
in  "  decent  black,"  shining  from  constant  brushing; 


Trains  and  Trekschuits  59 

the  women  in  bright  silk  bodices  and  spreading  petti- 
coats. 

The  captain  of  the  craft  was  a  wrinkled  and 
weather-beaten  old  Dutchman,  yet  looking  wonder- 
fully healthy  and  hearty,  whose  principal  business 
was  to  collect  the  fares  and  warn  his  passengers  to 
duck  their  heads  to  escape  the  bridges.  He  also 
assisted  the  deck-boy  in  lowering  the  funnel  for  the 
same  purpose,  and  at  every  such  operation  the  un- 
fortunate second-class  passengers  in  the  stern  were 
deluged  with  smoke  and  covered  with  smuts.  Some 
of  the  bridges  were  too  low  for  us  to  pass,  and  had 
to  be  tilted  up  out  of  the  way  by  a  system  of  counter- 
weights; and  when  this  was  necessary,  or  when  we 
went  through  a  lock,  there  was  a  toll  to  pay,  which 
was  collected  in  a  wooden  shoe  at  the  end  of  a  fish- 
ing-line. 

Wooden  shoes  are  useful  for  many  things  besides 
for  footwear.  One  of  their  nicest  uses,  I  think,  is 
to  tell  how  many  of  the  family  are  at  home.  They 
are  never  worn  in  the  house  —  even  leather  ones  send 
a  thrill  of  horror  and  dismay  to  the  heart  of  the 
cleanly  huisvrouw.  Wooden  shoes  are  slipped  off  just 
outside  the  door,  with  a  movement  incredibly  quick, 
and  the  family  goes  about  indoors  in  its  stocking- feet, 
which  must  be  trying  in  winter,  for  the  floor  is  usually 
of  tile.  Cloth  slippers  are  worn,  however,  and  in 
some  places  stockings  are  made  with  leather  soles  — 
more,  no  doubt,  to  protect  the  stocking  than  the  foot 
within  it. 


60  The  Spell  of  Holland 

So  one  can  always  tell  how  many  people  are  inside 
the  house  by  the  number  of  shoes  before  the  door. 
It  looks  very  quaint  to  see  those  big  and  little  shoes 
standing  there,  all  pointed  toward  the  door,  just  as 
they  were  stepped  out  of.  And,  let  me  add,  that 
the  door  to  which  I  refer  is  the  back  door  and  not 
the  front  door.  The  latter  is  opened  only  for 
marriages  and  funerals  and  such-like  important  cere- 
monies; but  the  family  makes  its  exits  and  entrances 
at  the  back  door,  and  callers  always  knock  there. 

Once  clear  of  Rotterdam,  the  little  canal  ran  past 
quiet  fields  and  pleasant  villages  and  placid  farmsteads, 
and  we  were  so  close  to  the  people  on  the  banks  that 
we  could  almost  have  shaken  hands  with  them.  Nearly 
every  family  was  sitting  in  a  little  arbour  or  summer- 
house  overlooking  the  canal,  and  trifling  with  tea  or 
coffee  or  refreshments  of  some  sort.  They  looked 
very  happy  and  contented,  and  most  of  them  waved 
to  us  as  we  passed. 

Every  Dutch  house  has  its  garden,  however  small, 
and  the  garden  is  always  beautifully  kept  and  luxuriant 
with  bloom.  The  roses,  grown  like  little  trees,  with 
a  stem  an  inch  in  diameter  and  three  or  four  feet 
high,  are  a  constant  delight.  I  have  seen  the  state- 
ment many  times  that  the  Dutch  do  not  really  care 
for  flowers,  that  they  cultivate  them  merely  to  sell, 
but  I  do  not  believe  it.  For  flowers  are  used  every- 
where, much  more  abundantly  than  in  this  country, 
and  if  appearances  count  for  anything,  the  Dutch 
care  a  good  deal  more  for  them  than  we  do. 


Trams  and  Trekschuits  61 

We  presently  passed  a  great  barge  loaded  with 
flowers  being  towed  in  to  Rotterdam  for  the  Monday 
market,  and  such  a  mass  of  bloom  I  never  saw  before. 
The  flowers  were  arranged  in  crates,  one  above  the 
other,  and  I  have  only  to  close  my  eyes  to  see  that 
mass  of  delicate  pinks  and  whites  and  deep  reds  float 
by. 

When  a  Dutch  garden  has  a  canal  at  its  foot  it 
is  complete;  for  then  you  can  sit  in  the  back  yard 
and  fish,  or  lounge  in  the  summer-house  and  watch 
the  boats  go  by.  These  arbours  are  always  gay  and 
highly-coloured,  and  the  Dutch  seem  to  be  very  fond 
of  sitting  in  them.  And,  let  me  add,  most  Dutch 
gardens  do  look  out  on  a  canal;  for  in  this  country 
nearly  every  house  is  a  port  where  one  may  take 
boat  for  any  part  of  the  world. 

Our  little  boat  chug-chugged  placidly  along,  stop- 
ping at  numerous  landings,  delivering  a  passenger 
sometimes  at  his  very  door,  passing  groups  of  boys 
in  swimming,  the  captain  exchanging  greetings  with 
friends  along  the  banks,  with  everybody  in  the  best 
possible  of  humours.  We  passed  some  beautiful  wind- 
mills, and  always  there  were  two  or  three  on  the 
horizon,  with  cows  and  sheep  grazing  in  the  inter- 
vening meadows,  and  men  and  boys  fishing  in  the 
streams.  Fishing  seems  to  be  a  recognized  Sunday 
sport,  and  Dutch  boys  do  not  have  to  do  it  sur- 
reptitiously, as  I  did.  It  is  taken  very  seriously,  and 
the  Dutch  fisherman  goes  forth  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully equipped,  with  rod  and  minnow-bucket  and 


62  The  Spell  of  Holland 

creel  and  landing-net  and  lunch-basket  and  camp-chair, 
and  other  implements  whose  use  I  do  not  know. 
Sometimes  you  will  see  a  fishing-club  starting  out, 
looking  like  a  company  of  Tartarins  equipped  for 
the  Jungfrau.  But  I  have  never  seen  them  catch  a 
fish  which  warranted  any  paraphernalia  more  elabo- 
rate than  a  piece  of  string  and  a  bent  pin. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a  half  of  this  pleasant 
travel,  Delft  loomed  ahead  of  us,  with  the  tall  tower 
of  the  Nieuwe  Kerk  looking  particularly  imposing. 
At  the  landing,  as  we  were  inquiring  the  way  to  the 
Hotel  Central,  to  which  the  portier  at  the  Weimar 
had  recommended  us,  a  tall  and  gawky  fellow, 
evidently  very  proud  of  his  halting  English,  came 
forward  and  offered  to  accompany  us,  as  it  was  on 
his  way  home,  but  I  have  since  suspected  that  it  was 
in  quite  the  opposite  direction.  En  route,  he  regaled 
us  by  enumerating  the  picture  post-cards  which  had 
been  sent  him  by  Americans  he  had  met  at  Delft,  and 
it  sounded  like  the  catalogue  of  ships  in  the  Iliad. 
He  had  evidently  committed  them  to  memory,  and 
rattled  off  the  list  in  a  high,  nasal  sing-song  which 
threatened  to  be  never-ending.  We  promised  to  add 
one  to  the  collection.  He  also  told  us  that  Delft  was 
a  dead  and  uninteresting  place  and  was  astonished 
when  he  learned  that  we  contemplated  staying  there 
for  some  days. 

We  found  the  Central  a  typical  little  Dutch  inn, 
scrupulously  clean  and  with  a  head  waiter  most 
anxious  to  please.  He  had  married  an  English  wife 


Trains  and  Trekschuits  63 

—  just  why  or  where  I  never  learned  —  and  he 
introduced  her  to  us  next  day  and  was  evidently  very 
proud  of  her,  and  was  working  every  day  to  improve 
his  English,  in  the  hope  of  some  time  getting  to  that 
paradise  of  waiters,  New  York.  He  was  the  only 
one  about  the  place  who  could  speak  any  English, 
and  he  answered  the  bell  every  time  we  rang,  the 
chambermaid  evidently  fearing  even  to  be  seen  by 
the  strange  foreign  monsters ;  but  I  believe  the  failure 
of  all  the  other  employes  to  understand  us  was  due 
largely  to  the  fact  that  they  were  too  scared  to  listen. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  whenever  we  addressed  them 
they  grew  visibly  paler,  and  I  would  almost  swear  they 
trembled.  It  was  so  everywhere  —  at  Haarlem,  at 
Enkhuisen,  at  Kampen.  At  the  latter  place  it  was 
really  ridiculous,  —  but  I  shall  tell  about  that  in  time. 

We  strolled  forth  into  the  town,  after  lunch,  and 
found  it  indeed  dead,  for  everyone  had  joined  the 
Sunday  rush  to  The  Hague  and  Scheveningen,  only 
a  few  miles  away.  We  decided  that  we  might  as 
well  do  so,  too,  in  order  to  see  that  famous  watering- 
place  at  its  best  —  on  a  bright  Sunday  afternoon  at 
the  height  of  the  season.  A  steam-tram  runs  from 
Delft  to  The  Hague,  covering  the  distance  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  we  were  soon  set  down  at  the  border 
of  the  Dutch  capital.  From  there  another  tram  took 
us  to  the  "  Plein,"  where  we  caught  still  another  to 
reach  the  edge  of  the  wood  on  the  "  Oude  Weg  "  to 
Scheveningen. 

I  have  traversed  that  old   road  many  times,  but 


64  The  Spell  of  Holland 

never  has  it  lost  its  charm  for  me,  with  its  great 
trees  cut  into  six  avenues,  its  merry  children,  its  fresh- 
faced  nurse-maids,  its  promenading  couples,  —  yes, 
even  its  tram-cars.  These  tall  trees,  with  the  wood 
to  the  right,  are  all  that  remain  of  the  great  forest 
which  once  ran  all  along  this  coast  —  a  single  other 
remnant  at  Haarlem  excepted.  The  road  itself  was 
made  more  than  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago  —  about 
thirty  years  after  the  settlement  of  Boston!  On  the 
right  is  the  wood  I  have  spoken  of  —  the  "  Scheven- 
ingsche  Boschjes,"  it  is  called,  or  park  of  Scheven- 
ingen,  —  and  it  is  open  to  the  public  and  is  inter- 
sected with  beautiful  walks.  On  the  left  is  the  chateau 
of  "  Zorgvleit,"  or  "  Sans  Souci,"  once  the  residence 
of  Father  Jakob  Catz,  whose  homespun  rhymes  are 
so  dear  to  the  Dutch  heart,  and  who  died  there  in 
1660.  Midway  of  the  road,  its  creator,  Constantyn 
Huygens,  is  commemorated  by  a  bust.  The  road  runs 
for  about  a  mile  through  this  beautiful  wood,  and 
then  debouches  into  the  brick  streets  of  Scheveningen. 

The  modern  town  of  Scheveningen  is  not  interest- 
ing —  indeed  it  seems  a  little  sordid ;  it  is  certainly 
bare  and  not  over  clean.  It  lives  only  for  the  mag- 
nificent beach  which  it  faces..  Most  of  the  town  is 
built  behind  the  dunes,  but  on  top  of  them  and  facing 
the  ocean  is  a  row  of  great  hotels,  reminding  one 
of  Atlantic  City.  That  is  it,  in  a  word:  those  who 
enjoy  Atlantic  City  will  enjoy  Scheveningen;  those 
who  detest  the  one  will  detest  the  other. 

And  yet  there  are  some  things  about  Scheveningen 


Trams  and  Trekschuits  65 

which  are  unique.  One  is  the  hooded  chairs,  covering 
the  beach  from  end  to  end  like  a  strange  fungous 
growth.  Another  is  the  freedom  of  the  love-making, 
even  in  full  day,  in  the  sand  of  the  dunes.  Still 
another  is  the  hilarity  with  which  well-dressed  men 
and  women  shed  their  shoes  and  stockings,  hitch  up 
their  trousers  or  skirts,  as  may  be,  and  run  forth 
to  paddle  in  the  waves,  the  skirts  getting  higher  and 
higher  as  the  fun  progresses. 

The  dunes  mount  steeply  to  a  height  of  forty  or 
fifty  feet,  and,  once  on  top  of  them,  one  must  walk 
charily  for  fear  of  stepping  on  a  pair  of  lovers. 
From  the  top,  a  wide  view  may  be  had  over  the 
gray  sea  on  one  side,  and  the  gray  land  on  the  other 
—  a  wild  and  rough  country  given  over  to  birds  and 
rabbits,  and  with  a  penitentiary  in  the  middle  dis- 
tance. Reed  grass,  persistently  sown,  holds  the  sand 
in  some  sort  of  consistency,  else  every  wind  from  the 
ocean  would  roll  it  inland. 

There  was  much  eating  and  drinking  going  on, 
and  the  crowd  was  perspiring  and  good-natured,  with 
more  than  the  usual  sprinkling  of  soldiers,  owing  to 
the  nearness  of  The  Hague.  Most  picturesque  of  all 
were  the  fisherwomen  of  the  village,  with  their  wide 
skirts,  their  white  caps,  their  complicated  metal  orna- 
ments, and  their  parti-coloured  bodices  with  a  kerchief 
folded  about  the  neck.  A  pretty  face  loses  nothing 
by  a  white  cap,  and  there  were  a  lot  of  pretty  ones 
on  the  beach  that  day.  Children,  too,  swarms  of 
them,  adventuring  into  the  water  with  their  knobbly 


66  The  Spell  of  Holland 

little  naked  legs,  and  shrill  screams  whenever  a  roller 
came  in. 

The  fishermen  of  Scheveningen  catch  other  fish 
than  herring  these  days;  for  they  were  busily  en- 
gaged, that  Sunday  afternoon,  in  persuading  their 
guileless  countrymen  to  go  sailing  with  them  on  the 
briny  deep,  at  a  florin  a  head.  The  red-sailed,  broad- 
beamed  boats,  for  all  the  world  like  the  fish-wives 
in  appearance,  were  run  in  as  far  as  they  could  come, 
and  the  prospective  voyagers  carried  out  to  them  on 
the  fishermen's  shoulders.  We  expected  a  sensation 
when  a  woman  prepared  to  go,  but  the  fishers  were 
ready  with  a  board  slung  from  their  shoulders,  on 
which  the  lady  sat  quite  comfortably,  with  her  arm 
around  her  bearer's  neck.  Happy  fisherman!  Or 
perhaps  not.  I  did  not  see  the  lady's  face! 

We  watched  with  interest  the  process  of  launching 
one  of  these  boats,  when  it  had  got  its  complement 
of  passengers  aboard.  It  was  firmly  grounded  in  the 
sand,  and  it  was  no  small  task  to  get  it  off  again. 
An  anchor  was  carried  out  to  sea  a  little  distance 
and  dropped  to  the  bottom,  and  the  rope  wound  up 
on  the  windlass.  Then  a  dozen  fishermen  gathered 
under  the  bow,  and  as  the  boat  lifted  with  a  roller, 
they  lifted  and  shoved,  and  the  men  at  the  windlass 
strained  and  pulled,  and  perhaps  the  boat  moved  an 
inch  or  two.  It  took  anywhere  from  ten  minutes 
to  half  an  hour  to  warp  it  off  into  deep  water. 

When  the  boats  come  back  from  a  fishing  voyage, 
they  are  run  in  on  the  sand  as  far  as  they  will  go, 


Trams  and  Trekschuits  67 

and  are  then  hauled  out  high  and  dry  on  the  beach 
by  means  of  a  team  of  horses  attached  to  a  block 
and  tackle.  They  are,  of  course,  built  very  strong, 
or  they  could  not  stand  all  this  bumping.  How  many 
there  are  at  Scheveningen  I  don't  know,  but  there 
were  about  twenty  lined  up  along  the  beach  that 
day. 

At  the  edge  of  the  water,  too,  are  the  bathing- 
machines,  which  we  do  not  have  here  in  America, 
perhaps  because  our  bathing  costumes  are  not  so  scant 
as  the  European  ones.  A  lady  enters  the  machine  — 
which  is  nothing  but  a  little  box  on  wheels  —  a  horse 
is  hitched  to  it  and  drags  it  out  a  little  way  into  the 
surf,  and  turns  it  around,  so  that  the  door  faces  the 
open  sea.  And  presently,  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  a 
female  figure  as  it  springs  down  the  steps  and  plunges 
into  the  waves.  The  absence  of  a  skirt  certainly 
makes  for  freedom  of  movement,  and  it  may  be  that 
the  European  way  is  better  than  ours.  At  some  of 
the  smaller  beaches  there  are  no  bathing-machines, 
and  there  a  maid  waits  at  the  water's  edge  with  a 
voluminous  sheet  in  which  to  envelop  her  mistress  as 
she  emerges. 

Looking  down  on  the  beach  from  the  promenade 
high  above  it,  or  from  the  great  pier  which  runs 
out  into  the  sea,  it  has  a  most  peculiar  appearance, 
with  the  crowd  squirming  in  and  out  among  the 
chairs  for  all  the  world  like  insects,  and  the  chairs 
themselves  standing  there  like  huge  mollusks,  each 
with  its  occupant. 


68  The  Spell  of  Holland 

But  the  most  interesting  part  of  Scheveningen  lies 
a  little  distance  to  the  south,  where  the  fishing  village 
huddles  behind  the  dunes  —  a  village  of  little  old 
brick  houses  with  red  roofs,  and  steep  streets  over- 
flowing with  children.  The  children  are  regular 
young  cannibals,  and  as  soon  as  we  appeared,  surged 
around  us,  clamouring  for  "  money,  money !  "  stamp- 
ing on  our  feet  with  their  great  wooden  shoes, 
and  behaving  generally  in  the  most  outrageous  man- 
ner. 

Betty  fled  at  the  first  onset,  but  I  wanted  a  picture 
of  that  old  street,  and  tried  to  get  my  camera  in 
position.  It  was  impossible  with  that  mob  about  me, 
and  finally,  in  despair,  I  flung  a  few  coppers  as  far 
as  I  could  send  them,  and  took  the  picture  while  the 
young  savages  were  fighting  over  the  spoils.  The 
fisher-folk  of  Scheveningen  are  said  to  be  a  proud 
and  honest  race,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  report 
exaggerated.  I  haven't  much  confidence  in  the  pride 
or  honesty  of  any  people  whose  children  are  permitted 
to  beg.  Let  me  add,  that  at  only  two  places  in 
Holland  did  we  encounter  begging  children  —  at 
Scheveningen  and  at  Marken  —  and  both  places  have 
been  corrupted  by  tourist  exploitation.  As  a  whole, 
the  Dutch  people  are  proud  and  honest,  and  they 
should  not  be  judged  by  these  two  debased  communi- 
ties. 

We  walked  along  the  dyke  for-  a  time,  and  then 
made  our  way  back  to  The  Hague  through  the 
beautiful  wood,  and  there  took  tram  again  for  Delft. 


Trams  and  Trekschuits  69 

Not  until  I  had  ridden  on  a  Dutch  tram  did  I 
appreciate  to  the  full  those  immortal  lines  by  Mark 
Twain : 

Conductor,  when  you  receive  a  fare, 
Punch  in  the  presence  of   the  passenjare! 
A  blue  trip  slip  for  an  eight-cent  fare, 
A  buff  trip  slip  for  a  six-cent  fare, 
A  pink  trip  slip   for  a  three-cent  fare, 
Punch  in   the  presence   of   the  passenjare! 

Here  in  America,  we  pay  our  five  cents  and  ride 
to  our  destination,  whether  it  be  ten  blocks  or  a 
hundred.  But  in  Holland,  and,  indeed,  all  over 
Europe,  the  fares  are  nicely  adjusted  to  the  distance 
you  wish  to  travel.  The  conductor  carries  on  his 
arm,  like  a  palette  spread  with  colours,  a  tin-case  in 
which  the  various  tickets  are  arranged  —  blue  slips 
and  red  slips  and  buff  slips  and  green  slips  —  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow,  as  well  as  some  of  which  no 
rainbow  would  be  guilty.  You  state  to  the  conductor 
your  destination,  he  selects  the  colour  to  fit  your  case, 
punches  it,  and  points  out  to  you  the  fare,  printed 
legibly  across  it,  which  you  pay,  and  the  transaction 
is  ended;  except  that  it  is  then  the  conductor's  duty 
to  get  out  a  complicated  chart  or  table  and  make  a 
note  on  it  of  the  sale  he  has  just  effected.  An  in- 
spector boards  the  car  occasionally  to  look  at  the 
passengers'  tickets  and  compare  them  with  this  table, 
though  how  he  can  tell  anything  by  it  I  have  never 
been  able  to  imagine. 

It  was  in  the  tram  from  Delft  to  The  Hag^e  that 
we  met  our  first  discourtesy  in  Holland.  The  car  was 


70  The  Spell  of  Holland 

full,  but  not  crowded,  and  Betty  sat  down  on  one 
side,  while  I  started  to  sit  down  on  the  other,  when 
I  was  astonished  to  see  a  man  spread  out  over  the 
space  and  refuse  to  make  room  for  me.  The  number 
of  persons  who  may  sit  on  either  side  of  the  car  is 
regulated  by  law,  and  it  seems  that  his  side  already 
had  the  stipulated  number,  though,  as  many  of  them 
were  children,  there  was  still  plenty  of  room. 

A  sort  of  electric  shudder  ran  through  the  car  at 
his  action.  The  people  on  the  other  side  moved 
closer  together  and  invited  me  to  sit  there,  glaring 
at  the  offender,  who  stared  straight  ahead  with  a 
determined  scowl  on  his  countenance.  I  sat  down 
smiling,  for  it  was  all  very  funny,  thanking  those 
who  had  made  room  for  me.  In  some  way  the  con- 
ductor got  wind  of  the  matter,  and  came  in  and  de- 
livered a  lecture  in  emphatic  Dutch,  waving  his  arms 
over  the  head  of  the  guilty  man,  who  tried  to  look 
unconcernedly  out  of  the  window. 

I  think  most  of  the  people  in  that  car  felt  that 
the  nation  had  been  disgraced.  The  man  next  to  me 
tried  to  explain,  but  his  English  and  my  Dutch  were 
so  limited  that  we  couldn't  get  together,  though  I 
think  he  was  trying  to  tell  me  that  the  offender  was 
not  a  Dutchman,  but  a  low  and  unprincipled  German, 
of  whom  anything  might  be  expected.  The  conductor 
scowled  at  the  unfortunate  victim — for  so.  I  began 
to  regard  him  —  every  time  he  entered  the  car,  and  he 
was  visibly  glad  to  hasten  away  the  instant  the  car 
stopped. 


Trams  and  Trekschuits  71 

Let  me  add  here  that  that  one  example  was  the 
only  bit  of  discourtesy  or  apparent  unfriendliness 
shown  us  in  Holland.  To  overbalance  it  is  a  long 
record  of  kindnesses  which  we  shall  never  forget. 

This  visit  to  Holland  has  explained  the  battle  of 
Waterloo  to  me.  You  will  remember  that  it  was  not 
until  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  that  Napoleon  or- 
dered that  last  desperate  charge  of  the  Old  Guard, 
which  the  allies  repulsed  and  which  was  followed  by 
the  rout  and  slaughter  of  the  French.  I  had  always 
had  a  vision  of  those  grenadiers  sweeping  on  through 
the  darkness,  and  up  the  slope  where  the  allies  lay 
entrenched,  guided  only  by  the  flashes  of  the  cannon. 
But  I  know  now  that  that  charge  was  made  in  full 
daylight,  and  that  there  was  still  an  hour  of  daylight 
for  the  pursuit.  For  in  June  it  does  not  really  grow 
dark  here  until  after  nine  o'clock. 

The  way  the  daylight  lingers  is  a  constant  source 
of  astonishment  to  us.  We  sat  for  a  long  time  after 
dinner,  that  evening,  watching  the  busy  life  of  the 
streets,  having  our  coffee  served  at  a  little  table  in 
the  cafe  that  we  might  see  it  better.  The  front  of 
the  cafe  consisted  of  two  great  windows  which  are 
removed  in  summer,  so  that  one  sits  in  the  full  air 
at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  Not  until  nine  o'clock 
did  the  twilight  deepen  sufficiently  to  demand  lights; 
then  the  street  lamps  flashed  out,  shop  windows  were 
lit  up  —  and  every  gleam  of  light  was  reflected  in  the 
quiet  canal  flowing  along  the  middle  of  the  street. 


72  The  Spell  of  Holland 

The  curtains  were  drawn  behind  us,  to  shut  out  the 
lights  of  the  billiard-room,  and  we  sat  there  in  the 
darkness,  with  the  busy  street  like  an  illuminated  stage 
before  us. 

It  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  features  of  Dutch  cafes 
that  they  are  always  divided  in  this  way  by  heavy 
curtains,  so  that  those  who  sit  at  the  little  tables  near 
the  street  are  in  darkness,  broken  only  by  the  glowing 
ends  of  cigars  and  cigarettes  or  the  occasional  flare  of 
a  match.  It  is  a  warm  and  neighbourly  darkness,  alive 
with  the  murmur  of  conversation,  and  one  has  the 
sensation  of  sitting  at  the  theatre,  with  the  never- 
ending  human  drama  passing  before  one's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

OUDE    DELFT 

I  HAVE  said  that,  to  appreciate  Holland,  one  must 
go  there  with  Motley  in  his  head.  This  is  true 
especially  of  Delft,  for  it  was  here  that  William  the 
Silent  lived  during  the  closing  years  of  his  memorable 
struggle  with  Spain,  it  was  here  that  death  found  him, 
and  it  is  here  that  he  lies  buried.  Not  to  know  that 
story  is  to  miss  a  supreme  emotion  when  you  stand 
at  the  spot  where  that  tragedy  —  one  of  the  great 
tragedies  of  history  —  was  enacted;  a  spot  unchanged 
since  that  day,  with  the  mark  of  the  assassin's  bullet 
still  in  the  wall. 

Nor,  I  fancy,  is  the  town  much  changed.  The 
broad  and  placid  canals,  bordered  by  lime  trees,  flow 
through  the  streets,  mirroring  the  carved  and  painted 
fagades  of  the  sixteenth  century  houses;  the  air  is 
tuneful  with  the  chimes  from  the  towers  of  the  stad- 
huis  and  the  Old  Church  and  the  New;  peace  and 
quiet  brood  over  the  little  city.  Its  presiding  genius 
is  Hugo  Grotius,  "  The  Wonder  of  Europe,  the  sole 
astonishment  of  the  learned  world,  the  splendid  work 
of  nature  surpassing  itself,  the  summit  of  genius,  the 
image  of  virtue,  the  ornament  raised  above  mankind," 

73 


74  The  Spell  of  Holland 

to  quote  a  portion  of  the  epitaph  above  his  tomb  in 
the  New  Church.  Modern  opinion  has  placed  Grotius 
on  a  pinnacle  considerably  less  exalted;  but  his  image 
in  bronze,  showing  him  clad  in  a  long  doctor's  gown, 
stands  in  the  market-place,  dreamily  contemplating 
the  stadhuis. 

He  was  born  here  at  Delft,  and  he  seems  to  have 
been  one  of  those  horrible  things  known  as  infant 
prodigies,  for  he  wrote  Latin  verses  at  nine,  a  Greek 
ode  at  eleven,  and  a  philosophic  treatise  at  fourteen 

—  and  was,  no  doubt,  at  every  age  thoroughly  in- 
sufferable.    Maurice  of  Nassau  seems  to  have  found 
him  so,  for  he  sentenced  him  to  life  imprisonment  in 
the  castle  of  Loevenstein,  whence  he  escaped,  as  we 
have   seen,    in   a   way   reminiscent   of   the   immortal 
D'Artagnan's  capture  of  General   Monk.     Not  until 
after  his  death  did  his  birthplace  claim  him,  build  him 
a  gorgeous  monument  and  set  up  his  statue  in  the 
market-place,  to  gaze  for  ever  at  the  stadhuis. 

The  stadhuis  at  Delft  is  worth  contemplating  — 
though  not  through  all  eternity  —  for  it  is  a  pleasing 
renaissance  structure,  with  columned  front  and  dor- 
mered  roof  and  broad  square  tower.  Behind  it  is  the 
inevitable  weigh-house,  with  the  usual  sculptured  re- 
lief of  a  beam-scale  in  operation.  The  stadhuis  has 
its  scales  too,  held  by  the  figure  of  Justice. 

Facing  it,  across  the  square,  is  the  Nieuwe  Kerk 

—  new  only  by  comparison  with  the  Old,  for  it  dates 
from  the  fourteenth  century  —  a  church  which,  from 
the  front,  seems  all  tower.     That  tower  springs  to  a 


Oude  Delft  75 


height  of  nearly  four  hundred  feet  and  is  visible  all 
over  southern  Holland. 

Within  the  church  lies  the  dust  of  William  the 
Silent,  as  well  as  that  of  all  the  other  princes  of  the 
House  of  Orange  down  to  the  present  day;  but  the 
bright  fame  of  their  illustrious  ancestor  shadows  their 
names  to  comparative  obscurity.  It  is  only  of  the 
great  William  we  think  as  we  stand  before  the  mag- 
nificent monument  erected  by  the  United  Provinces  to 
his  memory.  It  is  a  masterpiece  in  its  way,  with  the 
Prince  in  white  marble  lying  upon  a  black  marble 
sarcophagus,  with  his  dog  at  his  feet. 

There  were  two  dogs  famous  in  the  Prince's  life 

—  one,   in    1572,   when   two   Spanish  assassins  crept 
into  his  master's  tent  in  the  camp  at  Malines,  gave 
the  alarm  and  so  saved  his  master's  life;  and  another, 
no  less  devoted,  unable,  indeed,  to  save  the   Prince 
from   the   assassin's   bullets   twelve   years   later,   but 
refusing    meat    and    drink    thereafter,    preferring    to 
starve  rather  than  owe  allegiance  to  a  lesser  man.     I 
am  uncertain  which  dog  this  is  intended  to  represent 

—  perhaps  the  latter,  faithful  after  death,  or  perhaps 
an  embodiment  of  the  love  and  fidelity  of  both;    at 
any  rate,  lending  a  touch  of  simplicity  and  pathos  to 
a  monument  rather  too  florid  for  our  taste  today. 

The  character  of  this  devoted  patriot,  great  general, 
and  wise  ruler  reminds  me  irresistibly  of  that  of  our 
own  Washington;  for  surely  these  two  men  were 
alike  in  many  things,  and  one  might  almost  fancy 
that  the  Father  of  the  United  States  modelled  himself 


76  The  Spell  of  Holland 

consciously  upon  the  Father  of  the  United  Nether- 
lands, just  as  this  Republic  was  modelled  upon  that. 
When  he  died,  as  Motley  says,  "  the  little  'children 
cried  in  the  streets  " ;  and  certainly  it  is  impossible, 
remembering  his  struggles  and  tragedies  and  disap- 
pointments, so  patiently  endured,  to  stand  here  above 
his  dust  unmoved. 

I  have  said  that  the  monument  is  too  florid  for 
modern  taste;  and  this  is  a  fault  of  most  Dutch  monu- 
ments. They  possess  neither  dignity  nor  simplicity. 
The  violent  contrast  of  black  and  white  marble,  the 
mass  of  sculptured  detail,  the  crowds  of  allegorical 
figures,  the  lavish  ornamentation  —  all  this  misses  the 
mark  by  over-shooting  it,  just  as  the  high-flown 
epitaphs  fail  to  impress  because  of  their  hyperbole, 
and  end  by  being  ridiculous. 

The  Oude  Kerk,  or  Old  Church,  is  not  far  away, 
and  as  one  approaches  it,  the  eye  is  caught  by  the 
tower,  so  perilously  is  it  out  of  perpendicular.  It 
seems  to  overhang  the  canal  at  its  foot,  and  I  should 
imagine  the  building  of  great  towers  on  the  soggy 
borders  of  canals  a  dangerous  experiment.  The 
church  is  a  huge  one,  of  brick,  even  to  the  traceries 
of  the  windows.  The  aisles,  both  of  choir  and  nave, 
have  separate  gabled  roofs,  very  steep.  This  means, 
in  the  first  place,  that  there  is  no  triforium,  and,  in 
the  second  place,  that  the  clerestory  is  very  high, 
though  the  windows  are  carried  down  only  a  portion 
of  the  way.  At  the  back  and  front  of  the  church, 
the  great  buttresses  come  so  near  the  canals  that 


Oude  Delft  77 


arched  openings  have  been  cut  through  them  to  afford 
a  passage.  The  north  aisle  is  considerably  wider  than 
the  south,  and  contains  the  lady  chapel,  as  is  the  case 
at  Dort.  The  interior  is  bare  and  white-washed,  the 
roof  of  wood  and  barrel- vaulted,  the  nave  cluttered 
as  usual  with  carved  pulpit  and  high  pews  and  one 
portion  of  it  cut  off  by  a  frame  partition  to  form  a 
gallery. 

There  are  in  the  church  a  number  of  tombs  of  more 
than  usual  magnificence.  Most  interesting  is  that  of 
Maarten  Harpertszoon  Tromp,  lieutenant-admiral  of 
Holland,  that  redoubtable  old  sea-dog  who  tied  a 
broom  to  his  masthead  as  indication  that  he  had  swept 
the  English  from  the  sea.  The  boast  was  not  an 
empty  one,  for  he  was  victor  in  thirty-three  engage- 
ments, and  died,  no  doubt  as  he  would  have  wished 
to  do,  at  the  moment  of  victory  in  the  last  and  great- 
est—  a  second  Nelson. 

This  battle,  the  defeat  of  Admiral  Monk  off  Texel, 
in  1653,  is  depicted  in  bas-relief  on  the  side  of  the 
pedestal.  Above,  on  the  rudder  of  a  ship,  lies  the 
figure  of  the  hero,  in  full  armour,  and  against  the  wall 
is  a  marble  slab  with  the  usual  fulsome  epitaph. 
When  one  enters  the  church,  one  receives  a  little 
pamphlet  entitled  "  Description  of  the  Principal  Tombs 
in  the  Old  Church  at  Delft " ;  a  description  written 
by  Dr.  G.  Morre,  and  done  into  English  by  one  D. 
Goslings,  whose  command  of  the  language  appears 
to  be  more  theoretical  than  idiomatic.  His  transla- 
tion of  Tromp's  epitaph  is  worth  appending  here: 


78  The  Spell  of  Holland 

FOR   AN    ETERNAL    MEMORIAL. 

You,  who  love  the  Dutch,  virtue  and  true  labour,  read  and 
mourn. 

The  ornament  of  the  Dutch  people,  the  formidable  in  battle, 
lies  low,  he  who  never  lay  down  in  his  life  and  taught  by  his 
example,  that  a  commander  should  die  standing,  he,  the  love 
of  his  fellow  citizens,  the  terror  of  his  enemies,  the  wonder 
of  the  ocean. 

MAARTEN  HARPERTSZOON  TROMP,  a  name  compre- 
hending more  praise  than  this  stone  can  contain,  a  stone  truly 
too  narrow  for  him,  for  whom  East  and  West  were  a  school, 
the  sea  the  occasion  of  triumph,  the  whole  world  the  scene  of 
his  glory,  he,  a  sertain  ruin  to  pirates,  the  successful  protector 
of  commerce ;  useful  through  his  familiarity,  not  low ;  after 
having  ruled  the  sailors  and  the  soldiers,  a  rough  sort  of  peo- 
ple, in  a  fatherly  and  efficaciously  benignant  manner ;  after 
fifty  battles  in  which  he  was  commander  or  in  which  he  played 
a  great  part;  after  incredible  victories,  after  the  highest  honours 
though  below  his  merits,  he  at  last  in  the  war  against  the 
English,  nearly  victor  but  certainly  not  beaten,  on  the  10th 
of  August  1653  of  the  Christian  era,  at  the  age  of  fifty  sex 
years,  has  ceased  to  live  and  to  conquer. 

The  fathers  of  the  United  Netherlands  have  erected  this 
memorial  in  honour  of  this  highly  meritorious  hero. 

I  should  like  to  add  D.  Goslings'  description  of 
the  monument,  but  it  is  too  long,  for  no  detail  — 
and  there  are  a  thousand  of  them  —  escapes  his 
notice.  Such  a  riot  of  carved  cherubs,  coat s-of -arms, 
ships,  helmets,  cannon,  battle-axes,  shields,  anchors, 
tritons  and  dolphins  was  never  seen  outside  of  Hol- 
land, and  the  designer  of  the  monument  outdid  him- 
self by  using  red  marble  as  well  as  black  and  white. 
D.  Goslings  announces  proudly  that  the  carving 
cost  ten  thousand  florins  —  so  may  good  money  be 
wasted ! 


Oude  Delft  79 


Scarcely  less  flamboyant  is  the  tomb  near  by  of 
Pieter  Pieterszoon  Hein,  another  naval  hero,  "  prin- 
cipally renounce!,"  as  D.  Goslings  says,  "  for  his 
taking  the  so-called  Spanish  silverfleet."  Here  the 
sculptor  has  placed  the  armoured  figure  of  the  admiral 
on  a  "  beautifully  carved  mattress,"  not  one  crease 
or  button  of  which  is  left  to  the  imagination.  His 
epitaph  is  even  longer  than  Tromp's.  It  declares  that 
he  "  surmounted  unsurmountable  obstacles,"  and  tells 
the  story  of  his  life  with  a  detail  I  have  met  with 
nowhere  else  in  stone  —  told,  it  would  seem,  regard- 
less of  expense! 

Anthony  Van  Leeuwenhoek,  the  inventor  of  the 
microscope,  is  also  buried  here  under  a  monument 
erected  by  his  daughter,  Maria.  The  epitaph  is  by 
"  the  Dutch  poet,  Huibert  Corneliszoon  Poot,  who  is 
to  be  compared  with  the  celebrated  Scotch  poet,  R. 
Burns,"  and  concludes  with  these  words :  "  As  every 
body,  o  wanderer,  has  respect  for  old  age  and  won- 
derful parts,  tread  this  spot  with  respect :  here  gray 
science  lies  buried  in  Leeuwenhoek." 

There  are  other  tombs  in  the  church,  notably  that 
of  Elizabeth  Van  Marnix,  whose  epitaph  declares 
"  There  is  virtue  enough  in  having  pleased  one  hus- 
band." The  only  inference  I  can  draw  from  this  is 
that,  had  she  survived  him,  she  would  have  remained 
a  widow. 

And  now  let  us  leave  the  church  and  cross  the 
little  canal  to  the  spot  where  William  of  Orange 
breathed  his  last. 


80  The  Spell  of  Holland 

The  Prinsenhof,  as  the  building  is  still  called,  was 
originally  a  monastery,  but  in  1575  was  fitted  up  as 
a  residence  for  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  was  his 
home  until  his  death,  nine  years  later.  A  wall  divides 
the  courtyard  from  the  street.  Crossing  this  court- 
yard, and  entering  the  door  in  the  building  opposite,  we 
are  on  the  spot  of  the  tragedy.  The  murderer  was  a 
fanatical  Catholic,  named  Baltasar  Gerard,  who,  from 
his  youth,  had  nursed  the  idea  of  killing  the  Prince, 
and  whose  chance  finally  came  when,  by  fraud,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  admittance  to  the  house.  Conceal- 
ing himself  in  a  dark  recess  in  the  vestibule,  he  waited 
until  the  Prince,  coming  from  dinner,  started  to  mount 
the  stair  to  the  upper  story,  and  then,  stepping  to 
within  a  foot  or  two  of  him,  he  discharged  a  pistol 
full  at  his  heart.  Three  balls  entered  his  body,  one 
of  which  passed  clear  through  him  and  struck  the 
opposite  wall.  He  died  almost  instantly.  Gerard, 
seeking  to  escape,  was  seized  and  put  to  death  with 
awful  tortures. 

The  scene  has  not  changed  since  that  day.  The 
mark  of  that  fatal  bullet  is  still  on  the  wall;  there 
is  the  dark  recess  in  which  the  assassin  hid;  there  is 
the  old  stair. 

The  dining-room  from  which  the  Prince  emerged 
has  been  converted  into  a  museum  containing  objects 
connected  with  his  life,  and  is  presided  over  by  a 
most  courteous  custodian.  But,  after  having  been  so 
near  the  mighty  patriot  as  one  seems  to  be  at  the  foot 
of  the  old  staircase,  mere  documents  and  portraits 


Oude  Delft  81 


and  signatures  have  little  interest.  More  interesting 
it  was  to  us  to  reflect,  as  we  walked  the  streets  of 
Delft,  that  Father  William  once  strolled  along  these 
pavements,  hat  in  hand,  conversing  with  workman 
and  with  farmer,  listening  to  their  grievances,  adjust- 
ing their  disputes,  assisting  at  their  marriages  and 
christenings,  loved  and  revered  —  as  his  memory  is 
to-day. 

The  map  of  Delft  reminds  one  of  a  gridiron,  so 
regularly  is  the  town  laid  out,  with  a  canal  along 
every  street,  and  a  broader  canal  running  around  it 
like  a  moat.  No  doubt  it  was  a  moat,  at  one  time, 
and  some  of  the  gates  are  left  that  guarded  it.  Most 
interesting  is  the  Oostpoort,  or  East-gate,  its  round 
towers  reflected  in  the  canal  at  its  feet,  and  the  dis- 
tant spire  of  the  New  Church  enclosed  by  its  arch 
as  by  a  frame. 

A  quiet  and  clean  town  it  is,  though  fallen  from 
its  ancient  splendour,  for  the  manufacture  of  that  old 
faience,  which  made  Delft  celebrated  throughout  the 
world,  is  a  lost  art,  and  its  modern  imitation  is  not 
to  be  compared  with  it.  The  City  of  Phoebus  it 
was  —  Delphi  Batavorium,  or  the  Delphi  of  Batavia, 
as  a  line  upon  Tromp's  monument  points  out;  now 
but  a  sleepy  Dutch  village.  The  town  has  been 
immortalized  by  one  of  her  sons  in  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  canvases  ever  painted  —  that  "  View  of 
Delft,"  from  the  brush  of  Jan  Vermeer,  which  hangs 
in  the  Mauritshuis  at  The  Hague,  with  the  Oostpoort 
in  the  foreground,  and  the  tower  of  the  New  Church 


82  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

springing  upward  in  the  distance  —  a  canvas  before 
which  one  stands  entranced,  so  natural  is  it,  so  quiet 
and  so  truthful. 

This  consummate  artist,  perhaps  the  greatest 
painter  of  genre  who  ever  lived,  was  born  at  Delft 
in  1632  and  died  there  at  the  age  of  forty-three. 
Little  more  is  known  of  him,  and  for  a  century  and 
a  half  his  very  name  was  forgotten,  his  pictures  being 
attributed  to  various  other  artists.  Then  a  French 
connoisseur,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  these  pictures, 
set  on  foot  an  investigation  which  brought  Vermeer 
the  fame  so  justly  his.  One  need  not  go  to  Holland 
to  see  an  example  of  his  delicate  art,  for  the  Metro- 
politan Museum  of  New  York  possesses  a  superb 
example.  But  in  Holland  one  sees  the  others,  —  all 
too  few !  —  and  each  remains  in  the  memory  like  an 
unrivalled  jewel  —  the  tender  "  Head  of  a  Girl "  at 
The  Hague  gallery,  so  charming  and  so  exquisite; 
the  "  Keukenmeid  "  at  the  Rijks,  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightfully natural  pictures  ever  painted;  and  so  on 
through  the  list.  Though  he  painted  for  twenty-five 
years,  less  than  forty  of  his  pictures  are  known  to 
exist.  The  fate  of  the  others  is  one  of  the  great 
mysteries  of  the  artistic  world. 

I  have  spoken  of  Vermeer  here  not  only  because 
he  was  born  at  Delft,  and  spent  his  whole  life  there, 
but  also  because  he  stands  apart  from  other  Dutch 
artists,  and  many  things  which  may  be  said  of  them 
would  not  be  true  of  him.  His  art,  indeed,  is  not 
Dutch  —  it  is  cosmopolitan ;  it  is  at  home  anywhere 


Oude  Delft  83 


in  the  world.  Not  for  him  were  the  great  corpora- 
tion pieces,  nor  the  rude  scenes  of  inn  and  kermess. 
He  had  a  soul  too  fine  and  a  touch  too  delicate  for 
such  uses;  and,  if  the  others  reach  his  height  occa- 
sionally, it  is  worth  remembering  that  he  never  de- 
scends to  their  depths. 

It  was  at  Delft  I  bought  my  Dutch  dictionary,  a 
tiny  vest-pocket  affair  costing  a  florin,  and  worth  its 
weight  in  gold.  We  had  long  since  realized  the 
necessity  of  knowing  some  Dutch  if  we  were  going 
to  stay  in  out-of-the-way  places,  and  we  had  discov- 
ered the  uselessness  of  a  phrase  book,  which  never 
says  what  one  wants  to  say.  So  I  hit  on  the  idea  of 
a  dictionary  and  in  a  book-shop  at  Delft  found  this 
one,  small  enough  to  carry  in  the  vest-pocket,  and 
yet  with  two  alphabets,  one  Dutch-English  and  one 
English-Dutch.  After  that  I  was  never  without  it. 
It  did  not,  of  course,  enable  us  to  converse  in  Dutch, 
but  we  could  always  find  the  key-word  of  any  sen- 
tence, and  the  key-word  was  usually  sufficient. 

Even  in  the  small  towns,  however,  English  is  spoken 
quite  generally,  especially  by  the  young  people,  for 
it  is  regularly  taught  in  the  schools.  More  than  one 
shop-keeper  has  hastily  summoned  his  daughter,  when 
he  found  we  were  Americans,  to  talk  to  us;  and, 
after  her  first  shyness  and  excitement  were  over,  she 
usually  did  very  well.  Besides,  it  is  wonderful  how 
much  can  be  accomplished  by  gestures! 

I  spent  some  time  in  the  bookstore  at  Delft,  for  I 
was  curious  to  know  what  sort  of  English  literature 


84  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

was  honoured  by  translation  into  Dutch.  Detective 
stories  easily  took  first  place.  There  was  Sherlock 
Holmes,  in  all  his  incarnations,  and  the  tales  of  the 
ingenious  Mr.  Oppenheim,  and  others  which  I  have 
forgotten.  Art  books  seem  to  be  great  favourites  in 
Holland,  and  the  young  lady  in  charge  of  the  store 
was  greatly  interested  in  a  national  book  exhibition, 
or  "  tentoonstelling,"  to  be  held  shortly  at  Amsterdam. 

The  bookstore  was  also  adorned  with  flaring  posters 
announcing  the  next  lottery,  chances  for  which  could 
be  purchased  there.  It  is,  as  I  understand  it,  a  na- 
tional affair,  conducted  under  the  supervision  of  the 
government,  and  the  drawing  takes  place  every 
eighteen  months.  There  are  21,000  tickets,  costing 
seventy  florins  each,  and  the  prizes  range  all  the  way 
from  a  hundred  thousand  florins  down.  It  is,  the 
young  lady  told  me,  very  popular,  and  all  the  money 
realized  from  the  sale  of  tickets  is  distributed  in  prizes, 
except  enough  to  pay  the  actual  running  expenses. 
The  government  argues,  I  suppose,  that  if  its  citizens 
are  determined  to  gamble,  it  will  see  that  they  get 
a  square  deal. 

We  fell  in  love  with  Delft  and  made  it  our  head- 
quarters for  many  days,  visiting  The  Hague  from 
there,  and  even  returning  from  a  flight  as  far  as 
Leiden.  We  loved  to  wander  about  the  streets;  to 
sit  of  an  evening  in  that  darkened  cafe,  watching  the 
street  life  and  listening  to  the  chimes.  There  are  no 
such  chimes  elsewhere.  The  Old  Church  and  the 
New  Church  both  have  them;  tier  on  tier  of  bells 


Oude  Delft  85 


up  in  those  tall  towers;  and  they  are  always  ringing, 
always  prodigal  of  their  melodies  —  with  simple  har- 
monies at  the  quarter  hour  and  the  half,  and  intricate 
carillons  at  the  hour.  So  high  they  are,  so  sweet, 
that  they  hover  over  the  city  like  the  very  Angel  of 
Music,  and  produce  in  the  brain  a  delight  so  delicate 
and  subtle  that  I  fancy  sometimes  that  that  great 
artist  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking  drew  something 
of  his  subtlety  and  delicacy  from  their  inspiration. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE    "  BLYDE   INCOMSTE  "    AT    LEIDEN 

WE  had  been  conscious  for  some  days  of  gorgeous 
placards  in  windows  and  upon  hoardings  announcing 
a  celebration  of  some  sort  at  the  famous  old  univer- 
sity town  of  Leiden,  and  when  we  asked  about  it  we 
were  told  that  it  was  a  student  festival,  and  that 
Tuesday  the  21st  of  June  would  be  the  best  day  to 
see  it.  So,  with  visions  of  student- foolishness  and 
horse-play  in  our  minds'  eye,  we  decided  to  go. 
Never  were  two  unsuspecting  mortals  more  agreeably 
surprised. 

We  might  have  known  better,  as  I  pointed  out  to 
Betty  afterwards,  for  Leiden  is  no  ordinary  univer- 
sity. You  have  all  heard  the  story  —  how,  in  1 574, 
the  city  was  besieged  by  the  Spaniards,  defended 
herself  desperately,  suffered  every  agony,  and  was 
relieved  only  when  William  the  Silent  cut  the  dykes 
away  down  at  Delftshaven  and  drove  his  fleet  up  to 
the  city  walls;  and  how  when  the  great  Prince  asked 
the  heroic  burghers  what  reward  they  would  have  for 
their  bravery,  they  petitioned  for  a  university;  how 
it  was  founded  in  1575,  and  how  its  fame  soon  ex- 
tended to  every  part  of  Europe.  Evidently,  that  was 
not  the  place  for  horse-play! 

86 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      87 

We  might  have  known  it,  too,  when  we  reached 
the  station,  that  morning,  and  found  the  platform 
crowded  with  grave-looking  men  in  top-hats  and 
frock-coats,  and  their  wives  in  creaking  silk.  The 
crowd  rilled  the  train,  but  when  we  got  to  The  Hague 
there  was  another  and  larger  crowd  waiting,  and  we 
witnessed  an  amusing  instance  of  Dutch  deference 
to  law. 

I  have  told  of  the  man  in  the  tram  who  refused 
to  make  room  for  me  because  the  seat  already  held 
the  number  the  law  prescribed.  This  was  another 
case  of  the  same  kind.  Our  compartment  had  four 
roomy  seats  for  eight  persons,  and  there  were  eight 
persons  in  it,  but  three  of  them  were  children,  and 
there  was  easily  room  for  two  more  without  crowd- 
ing. But  when  we  stopped  at  The  Hague,  the  Dutch- 
man nearest  the  door  closed  it  and  held  it  shut, 
despite  the  entreaties  of  the  men  and  women  on  the 
platform.  They  were  willing  to  stand;  they  were 
willing  to  do  anything!  But  he  shook  his  head  and 
held  fast  to  the  door,  and  those  wonderful  people 
did  not  get  angry  and  seize  him  by  the  collar  and 
jerk  him  out  and  trample  on  him,  as  an  American 
crowd  would  have  done;  they  did  not  even  argue 
with  him.  They  just  turned  away  sadly,  recognizing 
that  he  was  within  his  legal  rights,  and  searched  for 
a  seat  somewhere  else. 

At  Leiden  we  found  the  streets  and  houses  elabo- 
rately decorated.  All  the  way  up  the  long  street  from 
the  station  were  tall  standards  wound  with  cedar, 


88  The  Spell  of  Holland 

with  a  cedar  wreath  about  half  way  up  and  an  orange 
pennant  floating  from  the  top.  Here  and  there  a 
great  arch  crossed  the  street,  with  greetings  in  Dutch. 
Farther  along,  both  sides  of  the  street  were  bordered 
with  festoons  of  coloured  lights,  for  the  evening  cele- 
bration. The  householders  had  outdone  themselves, 
and  every  building  was  gay  with  bunting  and  flowers 
and  flags  and  painted  coats-of-arms,  and  many  of 
them  were  outlined  with  electric  lights  in  preparation 
for  the  evening.  I  have  never  seen  handsomer  dec- 
orations, and  it  was  evident  at  once  that  this  was 
no  ordinary  celebration. 

This  was  apparent,  too,  from  the  crowd  in  the 
streets,  which  were  fairly  jammed  with  people.  It 
seemed  as  though  all  Holland  had  poured  into  them, 
and  every  train  brought  hundreds  more,  while  the 
roads  leading  into  the  town  were  black  with  vehicles 
of  all  sorts.  There  never  was  such  an  opportunity 
to  study  costumes,  for  the  peasant  women  had  put 
on  all  their  adornments,  all  their  petticoats,  all  their 
jewelry,  in  honour  of  the  great  event 

We  bought  on  official  program  to  find  out  what  it 
was  all  about,  and  deciphered  it  by  means  of  my  little 
vest-pocket  dictionary.  The  great  event  of  the  day 
was  to  be  a  costumed  procession  representing  the 
"  Blyde  Incomste,"  or  happy  arrival  at  Amsterdam, 
on  May  20,  1642,  of  Frederick  Hendrick,  Prince  of 
Orange,  accompanied  by  Henrietta  Maria,  Queen  of 
England.  Henrietta  Maria,  it  will  be  remembered, 
was  the  consort  of  Charles  I.,  and  her  visit  to  Holland 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      89 

at  this  time  was  for  the  purpose  of  securing  money 
and  munitions  of  war  to  carry  on  the  contest  which 
that  ill-fated  monarch  was  waging  with  the  parlia- 
mentary army.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  magnifi- 
cent suite,  and  was  met  outside  the  city  by  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  the  city  dignitaries,  the  foreign  ambassa- 
dors, and,  of  course,  an  imposing  array  of  soldiers. 
It  was  the  entrance  of  this  cavalcade  into  the  city 
which  the  procession  at  Leiden  was  to  represent. 

In  preparation  for  it,  the  householders  along  the 
line  of  march  had  erected  stands  on  the  sidewalks, 
and  seats  in  these  could  be  procured  for  a  considera- 
tion. We  got  two  on  the  Breedstraat,  or  Broad 
Street,  not  far  from  the  stadhuis,  and  sat  down  to 
await  events.  We  were  exceedingly  fortunate  in  our 
host,  if  the  man  of  whom  we  bought  the  seats  can 
be  called  so;  for  when  he  found  we  were  from 
America  and  understood  little  or  no  Dutch,  he  hunted 
up  a  friend  who  could  speak  English,  and  introduced 
him  to  us,  and  asked  him  to  explain  things.  It  was 
then  that  our  eyes  were  fully  opened  to  our  good 
fortune  in  being  in  Leiden  on  this  day. 

For  this  celebration  is  a  great  event.  It  is  held 
yearly  in  one  of  the  university  towns  —  there  are 
five  in  Holland,  Utrecht,  Leiden,  Groningen,  Delft 
and  Amsterdam  —  and  lasts  a  week,  with  various 
elaborate  ceremonies,  among  which  is  always  the 
representation  of  some  event  in  Dutch  history.  This 
one  at  Leiden  included,  besides  the  parade,  an  open 
air  pantomime,  "  Alinora,"  a  masked  ball,  a  water- 


90  The  Spell  of  Holland 

fest,  a  bal  champetre,  and  concerts  and  receptions, 
and  alumni  dinners  innumerable. 

The  street  before  us  was  becoming  more  and  more 
crowded,  the  stands,  most  of  them  taken  entire  by 
various  societies,  were  rapidly  rilling  up,  the  banners 
were  waving  against  the  bluest  of  blue  skies.  Beggars 
and  gypsies  were  everywhere,  grinding  dilapidated 
street-organs,  showing  a  monkey  or  perhaps  only  a 
guinea-pig,  singing  a  song,  reciting  a  poem,  leading 
a  blind  man,  displaying  a  deformity,  or  perhaps  just 
plainly  begging  without  a  pretence  of  offering  any- 
thing in  return  —  standing  for  long  minutes  with 
hand  outstretched  and  the  countenance  pulled  into  an 
expression  supposed  to  be  pitiable.  One  feature 
which  provided  great  laughter  was  a  man  who  had 
undertaken  to  keep  dancing  all  day,  to  the  strumming 
of  a  guitar  by  another  man.  What  measures  were 
taken  to  insure  his  carrying  out  his  part  of  the  con- 
tract I  do  not  know,  but  I  suspect  he  and  his  comrade 
might  have  been  found  in  a  dark  corner  of  some  inn 
drinking  beer  together  as  soon  as  the  receipts  justified 
it.  The  repertoire  of  the  hand-organs,  and  of  the 
itinerant  musicians,  seemed  to  be  confined  to  two 
selections,  one  a  jumpy  little  march  and  the  other  a 
languorous  waltz.  The  latter  was  repeated  so  often 
that  I  fancied  it  must  possess  some  especial  impor- 
tance, so  I  asked  what  it  was. 

"  Te  Tollar  Preencess,"  answered  our  host. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"What  is  it  in  English?"  I  asked. 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      91 

He  called  his  friend  the  interpreter,  and  explained. 

"But,"  said  the  latter,  "  dat  iss  English  —  te 
Tollar  Preencess." 

"Oh,"   I   cried.     "Yes  — the   Dollar   Princess!" 

It  was  the  waltz  from  that  comic  opera  which  had 
just  reached  Holland,  and,  apparently,  quite  con- 
quered it. 

"  Will  you  and  your  lady  not  have  some  refresh- 
ments?" continued  the  interpreter. 

"Refreshments?"  I  repeated. 

"  Certainly,"  and  he  motioned  to  our  host,  who, 
fairly  beaming,  led  us  along  a  hallway  and  to  a  little 
gravelled  court  at  the  rear  of  the  house  where  a  table 
was  spread  with  mineral  waters  of  various  kinds, 
strawberries,  sandwiches,  cheese,  little  cakes,  and 
many  other  things  which  I  have  forgotten.  Here  he 
introduced  us  to  his  wife,  and  insisted  that  we  sit 
and  eat.  Would  we  have  tea  or  coffee?  Was  there 
anything  else  we  would  like?  And  both  of  them, 
together  with  a  white-capped  maid,  bustled  about, 
very  much  excited  and  apparently  very  happy. 

We  found  out  afterwards  that  refreshments  were 
included  in  the  price  of  the  seats;  but  even  if  they 
had  not  been,  I  believe  they  would  have  been  pro- 
duced by  these  hospitable  and  simple-hearted  people, 
so  kind  and  so  characteristically  Dutch.  I  have  never 
seen  any  other  people  so  pleased  to  give  other  people 
pleasure.  Christmas,  with  its  giving  of  presents  and 
its  joyful  surprises,  must  be  a  great  event  with  them. 
Indeed,  Dutch  pictures  prove  it  so. 


92  The  Spell  of  Holland 

But  a  blare  of  trumpets  announced  the  approach  of 
the  procession,  and  we  hastened  back  to  our  seats. 
In  a  moment,  the  vanguard  came  in  sight  under  an 
arch  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  a  beautiful  pan- 
orama unrolled  before  us.  For  here  was  no  hastily- 
prepared  spectacle,  with  tawdry  costumes,  but  a 
carefully-ordered  pageant,  historically  correct,  with 
costumes  in  replica  of  the  real  ones  —  with  real  point- 
lace,  and  sumptuous  silks  and  velvets,  and  the  most 
magnificent  plumes  I  ever  saw  on  a  hat.  What  those 
costumes  cost  I  hesitate  to  guess;  but  they  gave  a 
glimpse  of  the  wealth  and  solidity  of  this  splendid 
little  nation. 

The  pageant  was  a  replica  of  the  actual  one  which 
had  occurred  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  before, 
down  to  the  minutest  detail.  First  came  the  trum- 
peters and  various  minor  Dutch  dignitaries  and  their 
attendants  on  horseback;  then  William  Frederick, 
Count  of  Nassau,  and  his  court;  then  a  throng  of 
military  officers;  then  Henrietta  Maria  and  her  court, 
the  ladies  in  magnificent  state  coaches,  drawn  by  six 
or  eight  horses,  with  outriders,  postilions  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  looking  very  beautiful  in  their  powder 
and  patches  —  the  Duchess  of  Bristol,  the  Duchess 
of  Lenox  and  Richmond,  the  Countess  of  Hanau; 
then  the  various  ladies  attached  to  the  Dutch  court, 
the  Baroness  of  Brederode,  the  Princess  de  Portuhal, 
the  Queen  of  Bohemia  and  her  daughters,  together 
with  the  guards  of  honour;  then  the  officials  of 
Amsterdam,  the  burgomeester  and  his  councillors; 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      93 

then  Frederick  Hendrick,  of  Nassau,  in  beautiful 
damascened  armour,  with  the  gentlemen  of  his  court, 
and  his  captains,  and  the  various  ambassadors  resi- 
dent in  Holland,  each  outvying  the  other  in  magnifi- 
cence; and  finally  a  throng  of  soldiers  on  foot  and 
nobles  on  horseback  impossible  to  enumerate  here. 

I  had  always  fancied  the  Dutch  rather  a  stolid 
people,  but  certainly  there  was  nothing  stolid  in  their 
behaviour  that  day.  The  cavaliers  were  showered 
with  flowers  and  confetti,  great  wreaths  were  handed 
up  to  them;  each  new  costume  was  greeted  with 
applause  and  exclamations  of  delight,  and  the  plumed 
hats  were  sweeping  the  horses'  necks  continually  in 
response.  All  along  the  route,  the  people  at  the  win- 
dows had  supplied  themselves  with  flowers;  and  we 
were  especially  amused  at  the  excitement  of  some 
young  ladies  in  the  windows  across  from  us.  Their 
supply,  albeit  generous  enough,  was  soon  exhausted, 
and  they  attacked  a  double  row  of  gorgeous  gera- 
niums growing  in  a  long  box  which  extended  right 
across  the  building.  By  the  time  the  procession  had 
passed,  not  one  bloom  remained! 

During  the  intermission,  Betty  and  I  started  out 
to  see  something  of  the  town.  To  Americans,  of 
course,  it  is  especially  interesting  as  the  place  where 
the  "  Pilgrim  Fathers  "  found  a  refuge  for  the  ten 
years  which  followed  their  exile  from  England.  I 
suppose  most  of  us,  in  our  youth,  have  repeated  Mr. 
Rankin's  ingenuous  verses,  beginning, 


94  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  The  word  of  God  to  Leiden  came, 

Dutch  town  by  Zuyder  Zee. 
Rise  up,  my  children  of  no  name, 
My  kings  and  priests  to  be." 

Leiden  is  a  good  many  miles  from  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
and  Zee  rhymes  with  "  bay  "  and  not  with  "  be,"  but 
I  suppose  these  discrepancies  must  be  forgiven  the 
exigencies  of  the  verse. 

Not  many  mementoes  of  the  Pilgrims  remain.  On 
the  Kloksteeg,  under  the  shadow  of  the  great  church 
of  St.  Peter,  is  the  site  of  the  house  in  which  John 
Robinson  "lived,  taught,  and  died,  1611-1625,"  as 
the  tablet  on  the  wall  of  the  present  house,  of  later 
date,  puts  it.  He  was  buried  in  the  church  opposite 
and  a  tablet  to  his  memory  has  been  placed  on  its 
wall  by  the  National  Council  of  the  Congregational 
Churches  of  America. 

Leiden  has  the  usual  attractions  of  a  Dutch  town 
—  a  handsome  sixteenth  century  stadhuis,  two  im- 
mense churches,  and  three  or  four  museums;  but  s-he 
has  no  pictures  worth  seeing,  despite  the  fact  that 
many  of  the  greatest  of  Dutch  painters  were  born 
here,  among  them  Rembrandt,  Jan  Steen,  Gerard 
Dou,  Jan  Van  Goyen,  William  Van  Mieris,  and 
Gabriel  Metsu  —  which  is  the  more  peculiar  since 
most  of  them  painted  here  for  many  years. 

Rembrandt  was  born  in  a  house  near  the  Witte- 
poort,  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhine,  where  his  father 
had  a  mill,  but  mill  and  house  have  long  since  disap- 
peared; Jan  Steen  tried  to  manage  his  father's  brew- 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      95 

ery,  failed  at  that  and  opened  a  tavern  at  the  Lang 
Brug,  but  brewery  and  tavern  are  no  more.  Indeed, 
the  position  of  Steen's  grave  in  St.  Peter's  church, 
where  he  was  buried,  is  not  even  known.  Gerard 
Dou  lived  here  at  Leiden  all  his  life,  but  nobody  can 
tell  where  his  studio  was,  and  his  grave  seems  to  be 
as  unknown  as  Jan  Steen's.  Such  is  the  irony  of  time, 
and  the  forget  fulness  of  man.  What  a  joy  it  would 
be  to  wander  through  that  old  mill  where  Rembrandt 
spent  his  boyhood,  or  to  sit  in  that  smoke-stained 
tavern  where  Jan  Steen  and  his  comrades  spent  so 
many  merry  nights!  That  would  be  worth  all  the 
rest  of  Leiden,  —  with  its  museums  of  natural  his- 
tory, and  ethnography,  and  Greek  and  Roman  an- 
tiquities, and  geology,  —  and  I  know  not  what  be- 
sides ! 

It  has,  however,  still  existent,  one  unique  and  un- 
spoiled relic  of  the  past  in  the  St.  Anna  Hofje,  or 
home  for  old  women.  You  reach  it  from  the  street 
through  a  sculptured  gateway  and  along  a  narrow 
passage,  and  instantly  you  are  back  in  the  fifteenth 
century;  for  this  courtyard,  and  the  bright  little 
houses  surrounding  it,  are  almost  exactly  as  they  were 
when  the  place  was  built  —  and  that  was  the  same 
year  that  Columbus  set  sail  from  Palos!  The  whole 
history  of  this  western  hemisphere  has  occurred  since 
then ;  the  world  has  been  shaken  by  tumult  and  revolu- 
tion, governments  have  arisen  and  disappeared,  but 
life  in  this  little  square  of  earth  has  gone  placidly  on. 
The  only  change  has  been  in  the  occupants  of  the 


96  The  Spell  of  Holland 

houses,  new  ones  succeeding  as  the  old  ones  were 
borne  away  to  their  last  resting-place. 

The  houses  are  all  more  or  less  awry,  but  as  clean 
as  can  be;  and  each  of  the  nice  old  women  spend- 
ing their  last  years  there  has  a  room  to  herself,  with 
a  white  little  wall-bed,  a  cupboard  containing  a  change 
of  clothing,  a  chair  to  sit  on  and  a  Bible  to  read. 
There  is  a  refectory,  where  each  inmate  has  her  plate 
and  cup  and  knife  and  fork  and  spoon,  and  a  kitchen 
with  a  shining  range  and  two  of  the  old  women  in 
white  caps  peeling  potatoes.  The  chapel  is  just  as 
it  was  when  it  was  first  built,  the  quaintest  little  build- 
ing, not  over  fifteen  feet  square,  with  a  tiny  chamber 
above  for  the  use  of  the  priest,  furnished  just  as  it 
was  when  the  last  priest  who  officiated  here,  in  the 
years  before  the  revolution,  left  it  never  to  return. 
I  shall  speak  of  hofjes  hereafter,  when  we  come  to 
that  symposium  of  hofjes,  Haarlem,  but  no  one 
should  miss  seeing  this  one  at  Leiden. 

We  loitered  about  the  streets  for  a  time,  after  our 
stop  at  the  hofje,  watching  the  crowd,  looking  at 
the  decorations,  and  finally  stopping  at  a  bright  little 
restaurant  facing  the  Rhine  for  dinner.  The  Rhine, 
a  mere  ghost  of  its  old  self,  flows  right  through  the 
centre  of  Leiden,  two  branches  known  as  the  "  Old 
Rhine  "  and  the  "  New  Rhine  "  uniting  in  the  middle 
of  the  town  into  a  single  stream  which  wanders 
placidly  on  toward  the  sea,  while  the  Singel  seems 
to  flow  all  around  the  town  without  getting  anywhere 
in  particular.  But  Dutch  rivers  have  such  a  fashion 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      97 

of  starting  from  nowhere  and  ending  in  nothing,  that 
I  have  long  since  ceased  to  wonder  at  their  eccen- 
tricities. 

The  little  restaurant  was  crowded  and  the  waiters 
so  excited  by  the  unusual  patronage  that  we  had  some 
difficulty  in  making  ourselves  understood,  even  with 
the  aid  of  our  dictionary;  but  a  good-natured  student 
at  an  adjoining  table  volunteered  his  assistance,  and 
we  fared  very  well.  There  was  an  orchestra  playing 
in  the  garden,  and,  while  we  sat  there,  a  portion  of 
the  procession  marched  past,  looking  dusty  and  weary 
and  hungry. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  streets,  we  found  that 
most  of  the  other  people  had  been  having  their  din- 
ners, too,  evidently  washed  down  with  copious 
draughts  of  beer  or  wine,  or  perhaps  enlivened  with 
the  insidious  Schiedam.  At  any  rate,  the  Spirit  of 
the  Kermess  was  abroad.  Little  booths  had  sprung 
up  along  the  street,  where  eels  and  wafelen  and 
poffertjes  were  cooking  and  being  devoured  in  appall- 
ing quantities.  I  had  noticed  these  fried  eels  for  sale 
during  the  day  and  had  speculated  on  the  correct  way 
of  eating  them.  Now  I  saw  how  it  was  done.  You 
take  the  head  of  the  eel  in  one  hand  and  its  tail 
in  the  other  and  tear  the  flesh  off  the  backbone  with 
your  teeth.  Those  who  were  thus  engaged  seemed 
to  find  the  morsel  a  delicious  one. 

And  the  poffertjes  and  wafelen!  Wafelen,  of 
course,  you  know;  we  have  our  hot-waffle-men  going 
about  the  streets  here  in  America,  and  the  product  is 


98  The  Spell  of  Holland 

not  greatly  different  to  the  Dutch  one ;  only  the  Dutch 
waffles  are  immense.  You  will  see  a  pair  of  waffle- 
irons  leaning  against  a  chair  near  the  fire-place  in 
Jan  Steen's  diverting  picture,  "  The  Oyster  Feast," 
in  the  Mauritshuis  at  The  Hague,  and  the  size  is 
not  exaggerated.  The  waffles  are  very  thin  and  crisp, 
and  are  served  with  a  dusting  of  powdered  sugar, 
and  (as  we  found  out  afterwards)  are  very  good 
indeed. 

But  the  poffertjes  are  unique,  and  the  process  of 
their  manufacture  most  fascinating.  There  is  a  great 
pail  of  batter,  and  a  sheet  of  iron  with  little  round 
depressions  in  it  over  a  hot  fire,  and  into  these  de- 
pressions a  woman  drops  little  blobs  of  the  batter 
with  incredible  rapidity,  while  another  turns  them 
over  and  then  spears  them  out  with  a  fork  as  soon 
as  they  are  nicely  browned,  puts  a  pile  of  them  on 
a  plate,  sifts  some  sugar  over  them  and  there  you 
are.  We  had  some  afterwards  at  Amsterdam,  and 
found  that  they  taste  much  like  our  own  batter-cakes. 

As  the  dusk  deepened,  the  fun  grew  more  furious, 
and  we  returned  to  our  seats  in  the  Breedstraat  in 
order  to  watch  it  without  becoming  involved.  The 
Dutch  idea  of  fun  seems  to  be  for  a  lot  of  young 
men  and  women  to  lock  arms  and  go  dancing  and 
capering  along  the  street,  shouting  in  chorus.  It  is 
not  edifying  to  look  at,  and  I  don't  see  how  it  can 
be  edifying  to  do,  but  the  participants  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  themselves  hugely.  It  took  one  back  to  the 
pictures  by  Hals  and  Jan  Steen;  and  though  we  saw 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden      99 

no  actual  love-making,  I  don't  doubt  that  that  fol- 
lowed as  a  matter  of  course  as  the  evening  advanced. 
This  capering  through  the  streets  was  probably  only 
the  preliminary  canter. 

At  last  it  was  dark  enough  for  the  evening  illu- 
mination, and  most  elaborate  it  proved  to  be.  All 
along  either  side  of  the  street  a  festoon  of  coloured 
glasses  had  been  hung,  each  with  a  candle  in  it,  and 
groups  of  men  were  soon  at  work  lighting  them. 
Then  the  electric  decorations  were  flashed  on,  the  old 
stadhuis  leading  the  way  with  an  elaborate  display. 

For  an  hour  longer,  the  peasants  and  servants  had 
the  streets  to  themselves,  and  took  every  inch  of 
them.  Then  the  stands  began  to  fill  again,  and  finally 
the  parade  of  the  morning  was  repeated,  except  that 
it  was  rendered  still  more  picturesque  by  the  "  fak- 
kellichts,"  or  torches  carried  by  the  students.  Then 
the  streets  were  given  over  to  the  peasantry  in 
earnest,  while  the  alumni  and  their  friends  attended 
the  concert  of  the  Leiden  "  Muziekkorps,"  or  one  of 
the  many  class  reunions. 

For  us,  the  problem  was  to  reach  the  station,  and, 
bidding  our  hosts  the  kindest  of  good-byes,  we  plunged 
into  the  street.  The  crowd  was  a  good-humoured 
one,  however,  though  extremely  boisterous,  and  we 
had  no  reason  to  complain,  except  at  the  slowness  of 
our  progress.  This  was  not  without  its  compensa- 
tions, as  it  gave  us  time  to  see  some  of  the  decora- 
tions more  closely.  The  canals  were  especially  beau- 
tiful, illumined  with  rows  of  Chinese  lanterns,  and 


100  The  Spell  of  Holland 

many  gayly-decorated  boats  idling  along  them,  —  an 
effect  almost  Venetian.  We  should  have  liked  to  see 
the  waterfest,  scheduled  for  an  evening  later  in  the 
week,  but  some  wishes  must  go  unsatisfied.  So  with- 
out misadventure  we  reached  the  station,  secured 
seats  in  the  crowded  train,  and  in  due  time  arrived 
safely  at  Delft. 

I  cannot  close  this  chapter  without  relating  an 
incident  peculiarly  pleasant.  I  have  said  that  the  pro- 
prietor of  our  seats  thought  it  his  duty  to  provide 
refreshments,  and  this  had  the  effect  of  making  the 
holders  of  the  seats  acquainted  with  one  another,  par- 
ticularly at  the  "  tea  "  which  was  served  in  the  after- 
noon. Near  us  were  seated  a  lady  and  her  two 
daughters,  with  whom  we  fell  into  converse,  for  they 
could  speak  a  little  English  —  the  youngest  daughter, 
indeed,  speaking  it  quite  well.  As  they  were  leaving, 
they  asked  us  with  the  shyness  of  the  gently-bred,  if 
we  would  not  have  lunch  with  them  some  day  at 
their  home  at  The  Hague,  and  they  were  so  evidently 
nice  people,  of  the  sort  one  loves  to  know,  that  we  at 
once  accepted. 

Neither  of  us  will  soon  forget  that  visit.  Their 
home  was  a  typical  old  Dutch  mansion  on  the 
Zeestraat,  full  of  beautiful  things,  and  Mijnheer  B., 
the  husband  and  father,  a  handsome  Dutch  gentleman 
of  the  best  type,  a  man  of  affairs,  whose  hobby  was 
rose-culture.  There  was  a  beautiful  garden  back  of 
the  house,  which  was  his  especial  pride  and  care,  and 


The  "  Blyde  Incomste  "  at  Leiden     101 

such  roses  blooming  in  it  as  I  have  rarely  seen.  He 
presented  Betty  with  a  bouquet  of  the  most  beautiful 
—  a  compliment  which  she  appreciated  at  its  full 
value.  It  proved  a  most  charming  experience  for 
both  of  us,  and  illustrates  better  than  many  pages  of 
description  could  do  the  characteristic  hospitality  and 
kindness  of  the  Dutch  people. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IN    "  THE    COUNT'S    ENCLOSURE  " 

"  THE  HAGUE  "  does  not  appear  on  any  map  of 
Holland,  for,  to  the  Dutch,  their  capital  is  known  as 
'S  Gravenhage,  which  means  "  The  Count's  En- 
closure," —  certainly  a  sufficiently  curious  name  for 
a  town.  But  long  before  there  was  any  city  here, 
one  of  the  Counts  of  Holland  built  a  hunting-lodge 
on  the  bank  of  a  lake  which  he  called  the  "  Vijver," 
or  "  Fish-pond,"  and  put  a  hedge  around  it  to  keep 
out  the  wild  beasts.  About  1250,  Count  William  II. 
tore  down  the  lodge  and  built  a  palace  on  its  site, 
and  this  was  afterwards  enlarged  and  rebuilt  and 
added  to,  until  it  grew  into  the  present  great  pile  of 
buildings  known  as  the  Binnenhof. 

Maurice  of  Nassau,  son  of  William  the  Silent, 
chose  this  as  his  residence,  so  it  became  the  capital 
of  the  country  and  grew  rapidly  into  a  large  and 
elegant  city.  But  it  has  always  kept  the  name  taken 
from  that  first  little  hunting-lodge,  "  The  Count's 
Enclosure."  English  tongues,  however,  halt  at  'S 
Gravenhage,  and  for  us  it  is  "  The  Hague."  The 
beautiful  lake  in  the  middle  of  the  town  is  still  "  The 
Fish-pond." 

The  Hague  is  no  more  typically  Dutch  than  Wash- 

102 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        103 

ington  is  typically  American.  It  is  a  modern  town 
with  broad,  straight  streets,  handsome  shops,  far  more 
French  than  Dutch  in  appearance;  no  doubt  a  most 
delightful  place  of  residence,  but  too  cosmopolitan  to 
be  of  interest  to  the  traveller  in  search  of  local  colour. 
There  are  three  things  at  The  Hague,  however,  which 
must  be  seen  —  the  Mauritshuis  Museum,  the  Mesdag 
Museum,  and  the  Binnenhof. 

There  is  a  famous  old  inn  at  The  Hague,  the 
"  Vieux  Doelen,"  looking  out  upon  a  plearant  square 
and  writh  the  Vijver  just  around  the  corner ;  but,  alas, 
it  has  come  to  be  "  patronized  by  English  and  Ameri- 
can travellers,"  as  Baedeker  puts  it,  and  advertises  the 
fact  by  displaying  the  flags  of  those  nations  at  its 
door,  on  either  side  of  the  Dutch  flag.  The  Dutch  col- 
ours are  red,  white  and  blue,  —  a  favourite  combina- 
tion with  republics,  —  arranged  lengthwise  of  the  flag 
in  three  stripes  of  equal  width,  the  white  in  the  centre. 

"  Doelen  "  is  a  favourite  name  for  inns  in  Holland. 
It  means  "  shooting  gallery,"  and  is  reminiscent  of  the 
old  days  when  Dutch  gentlemen  met  regularly  for 
target-practice,  in  order  to  be  ready  to  defend  their 
country,  should  need  arise.  Now  target-practice  be- 
gets thirst  and  hunger,  so  refreshments  were  always 
at  hand  for  the  sustenance  of  the  patriots,  and  those 
who  came  to  shoot  remained  to  eat  and  drink.  The 
country's  enemies  were  subdued,  in  time,  and  the  need 
for  target-practice  passed ;  but,  as  Partridge  remarked, 
hunger  and  thirst  are  enemies  which  always  return 
to  the  charge,  no  matter  how  often  defeated,  and  the 


104  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  Doelens  "  had  become  the  natural  places  in  which 
to  assuage  them.  So  the  guns  and  targets  were  put 
away,  more  tables  secured,  the  kitchen  and  cellar  en- 
larged, and  that  which  had  been  a  shooting-gallery 
became  an  inn.  We  have  seen  how  old  names  per- 
sist, in  Holland  —  how  the  country's  capital  is  still 
called  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "  —  so  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  these  places  continued  to  be  known  as 
"  doelens,"  though  the  only  practice  studied  there  was 
the  art  of  wielding  knife  and  fork  and  emptying 
bottles. 

The  one  thing  at  The  Hague  on  no  account  to  be 
missed  is  the  collection  of  paintings  lodged  in  the 
handsome  residence  built  in  1633  for  Count  John 
Maurice  of  Nassau,  and  still  known  as  the  Maurits- 
huis.  The  collection  has  had  its  tribulations,  for, 
like  most  of  the  others  in  Europe,  it  was  carried  off 
to  Paris  by  Napoleon,  and  not  until  after  Waterloo 
was  it  returned  to  Holland.  Even  then,  Louis  XVIII. 
refused  to  restore  it;  but  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
remembering,  no  doubt,  how  gallantly  the  Dutch 
troops,  with  the  Prince  of  Orange  at  their  head,  had 
held  the  centre  of  his  line  at  Waterloo,  insisted  that 
the  pictures  be  given  up.  So  the  French  king  yielded, 
the  pictures  were  loaded  into  ambulance  wagons,  and 
on  November  20,  1815,  arrived  at  The  Hague,  wel- 
comed by  the  thunder  of  cannon  and  the  ringing  of 
bells.  The  collection  now  numbers  some  seven  hun- 
dred paintings,  more  than  three- fourths  of  which  are 
by  Dutch  artists. 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        105 

All  of  the  Dutch  masters  are  well  represented,  the 
most  famous  picture  of  the  collection  being,  of  course, 
Rembrandt's  "  School  of  Anatomy,"  with  the  deadest 
of  corpses,  so  wonderfully  foreshortened,  and  the 
group  of  earnest  faces  gazing  down  upon  it.  But  it 
does  not  impress  me  as  does  that  other  masterpiece 
of  his,  "  The  Syndics,"  at  Amsterdam. 

Next  to  the  "  Anatomy  Lesson "  in  reputation 
comes  Paul  Potter's  "  Bull,"  before  which  an  admir- 
ing group  is  usually  assembled;  but  it  grievously  dis- 
appointed both  of  us.  Indeed,  it  does  not  seem  to 
me  to  be  a  picture  at  all,  but  rather  a  painstaking 
attempt  to  portray  a  single  animal  with  photographic 
accuracy.  Nobody  can  deny  the  life-likeness  of  the 
bull;  but  the  rest  of  the  picture  is  almost  slovenly. 
It  has  no  depth,  no  atmosphere;  the  landscape  is  flat 
and  hard;  the  tree  and  the  herdsman  and  the  other 
animals  quite  uninteresting.  Please  understand  that 
I  am  no  connoisseur,  and  make  no  pretence  of  speak- 
ing with  authority 

But  for  me  the  two  pictures  at  the  Mauritshuis, 
above  all  others,  are  Jan  Steen's  "  Oyster  Feast,"  and 
Gerard  Dou's  "  Young  Housekeeper."  The  "  Oyster 
Feast "  is  hung  near  a  window,  where  it  gets  a  good 
light,  and  there  is  a  seat  in  front  of  it,  so  that  one 
may  sit  and  examine  it  at  leisure.  I  never  weary  of 
looking  at  it,  especially  at  the  wonderful  figure  of 
the  girl  kneeling  before  the  fire  and  putting  oysters 
on  the  coals.  That  figure  seems  to  me  the  summa- 
tion of  drawing  and  painting. 


106  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  The  Young  Housekeeper "  is  also  a  miracle  of 
painting;  a  tender  subject  —  merely  a  mother  and 
her  two  children  in  the  kitchen  of  their  home,  with 
vegetables  and  game  and  fish  and  kitchen  utensils 
piled  about  —  tenderly  and  charmingly  handled ;  with 
minute  care  expended  on  every  inch  of  it. 

Another  interesting  picture  by  Jan  Steen  shows  him- 
self and  his  family  gathered  about  a  table,  having  a 
good  time.  Jan,  pipe  in  mouth,  laughs  full- face  out 
of  the  canvas,  just  such  a  plump  and  jolly  fellow 
as  one  would  imagine  him  to  have  been.  But  the 
whole  party  is  jolly,  and  what  a  pandemonium  of 
noise  must  fill  that  apartment! 

I  hope  you  will  spend  some  time  before  that  won- 
derful picture  of  Delft,  by  Jan  Vermeer,  of  which  I 
have  spoken,  and  whose  charm  I  am  quite  unable  to 
describe  or  explain.  But  then  there  are  so  many  pic- 
tures here  worth  lingering  before;  for  it  is  here  that 
you  will  begin  to  understand  and  love  Dutch  art  — 
the  art  of  such  men  as  Steen  and  Dou,  of  Van  Ostade 
and  Terbourg  and  Van  de  Velde  and  Metsu,  and  all 
the  rest.  I  shall  not  attempt  even  to  enumerate  these 
treasures;  but  there  is  one  other  picture  I  hope  you 
will  not  miss,  the  masterpiece,  perhaps,  of  Adrian  van 
Ostade,  "  The  Fiddler,"  so  full  of  kindly  human  in- 
terest that  one  smiles  involuntarily  in  looking  at  it. 

The  Binnenhof  is  only  a  few  steps  from  the  Maurits- 
huis.  One  enters  the  court  through  a  vaulted  gate- 
way, and  is  at  once  upon  the  scene  of  one  of  the 
great  tragedies  of  Dutch  history,  the  execution  of 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        107 

John  of  Barnevelt,  who  was  beheaded  in  this  court  on 
the  thirteenth  of  May,  1619,  his  last  moments  watched 
from  the  window  of  the  tower  opposite  by  Maurice 
of  Nassau,  whose  tutor  and  prime  minister  he  had 
been,  and  who  repaid  his  great  services  to  the  young 
republic  by  condemning  him  to  death. 

The  old  buildings  of  the  Binnenhof  completely  sur- 
round this  court,  which  has  a  most  mediaeval  appear- 
ance. On  the  east  side  is  the  Hall  of  the  Knights, 
now  used  as  a  storehouse  for  state  records,  while  the 
other  buildings  are  occupied  by  the  Dutch  parliament. 
They  are  interesting  only  as  parliament  buildings 
usually  are. 

In  the  square  outside  is  the  gloomy  old  tower  known 
as  the  "  Gevangenpoort,"  which  has  also  witnessed 
its  tragedies  —  the  most  famous  being  the  mur- 
der, in  1672,  of  Cornelis  and  Jan  de  Witt  by  an  in- 
furiated mob,  which  dragged  them  from  the  prison 
into  the  place  outside  and  tore  them  limb  from  limb. 
If  you  have  read  "  La  Tulipe  Noire,"  you  will  never 
forget  the  details  of  that  murder,  described  by  Dumas 
with  even  more  than  his  accustomed  vigour,  though 
not  with  entire  accuracy. 

The  Gevangenpoort  is  no  longer  a  prison  —  it  is 
a  museum;  a  museum  in  which  one  shudders;  for 
here  in  these  dark  and  narrow  cells  scores  of  men 
and  women  were  done  to  death.  Here  are  the  rack 
and  thumb-screws  and  barbed  boots  and  branding- 
irons;  here  are  the  implements  of  the  water-torture; 
and  here,  finally,  are  the  axe  and  block  which  ended 


108 The  Spell  of  Holland 

the  sufferings  of  such  of  these  unfortunates  as  were 
not  reserved  for  the  stake. 

One  is  glad  to  get  out  again  into  the  sunlight,  and 
to  turn  one's  thoughts  from  all  these  horrors  by  enter- 
ing the  Steengracht  gallery,  a  little  distance  away. 
The  Steengracht  is  not  of  the  first  importance  — 
scarcely,  perhaps,  of  the  second  —  but  it  has  some 
good  modern  pictures,  a  masterly  Rembrandt,  "  Bath- 
sheba,"  and  two  fine  works  by  Hals.  From  there 
one  may  go  to  the  Municipal  museum,  chiefly  notable 
for  its  paintings  by  modern  Dutch  artists;  but  if 
one's  time  is  limited,  little  is  lost  by  omitting  these 
two  collections  altogether,  and  going  straight  from 
the  Gevangenpoort  to  the  house  in  the  Laan  van 
Meerdervoort  which  shelters  the  extraordinary  col- 
lection presented  to  the  state  by  H.  W.  Mesdag. 

It  seems  strange  that  one  must  come  to  Holland 
to  study  the  work  of  the  Barbizon  school;  yet  such 
is  the  case,  and  it  is  here  at  the  Mesdag  museum  that 
it  must  be  done.  For  Mesdag,  himself  for  a  time 
a  member  of  the  Barbizon  group,  was  one  of  the  first 
to  appreciate  its  merits,  and  his  Corots  and  Millets 
and  Daubignys  were  bought  at  a  time  when  they 
were  more  or  less  of  a  drug  on  the  market.  The 
collection  is  particularly  rich  in  Corots,  and  while 
none  of  them  is  quite  equal  to  the  wonderful  ones 
at  the  Louvre,  there  is  one  which  is  especially  beauti- 
ful —  a  little  clearing  in  a  wood,  with  a  long  avenue 
of  trees  stretching  away  into  the  distance. 

In  the  ante-room  on  the  second  floor  are  two  studies 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        109 

by  D.  C.  A.  Artz  which  are  also  very  charming  — 
interiors  dimly  lighted  and  most  suggestive.  One 
shows  a  boy  on  the  floor  holding  a  baby,  while  another 
boy  watches  an  old  woman  as  she  lights  the  kitchen 
fire;  the  other  shows  a  family  of  five  or  six  at  table, 
and  both  are  full  of  atmosphere  and  feeling. 

It  was  interesting  to  compare  Bastien-Lepage's 
sketch  for  "  The  Haymakers  "  with  the  finished  paint- 
ing, now  in  the  Luxembourg.  The  "  sketch  "  is  also 
a  finished  painting,  and  differs  from  the  other,  so 
far  as  I  could  see,  in  only  one  detail  —  but  that  is 
a  vital  one.  If  you  know  the 'picture,  you  will  re- 
member that  its  whole  point  is  in  the  tragedy  in  the 
face  of  the  woman  seated  on  the  ground  and  staring 
straight  before  her  with  eyes  which  see  nothing.  In 
the  "  sketch  "  there  is  no  such  point,  for  the  face  is 
that  of  a  thoughtless  girl.  Was  it  in  the  watches  of 
the  night,  I  wonder,  that  the  inspiration  came  which 
transformed  a  very  ordinary  composition  into  a  great 
picture  ? 

We  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  M.  Mesdag  at  the 
museum,  and  he  was  good  enough  to  take  us  around 
and  tell  us  something  about  the  pictures,  speaking 
English  very  well,  but  with  a  voice  the  most  peculiar, 
in  which  the  fogs  and  tempests  of  his  own  sea-days 
seemed  to  linger.  An  imposing  and  venerable  old 
man,  verging,  I  suspect,  towards  second  childhood; 
he  is  yet  one  of  Holland's  best  painters  of  marines. 
There  is  one  of  his  pictures  here,  a  seaview  by  moon- 
light, especially  beautiful,  pervaded  by  that  atmos- 


110  The  Spell  of  Holland 

phere  of  pearly  gray  which  dominates  all  his  work. 
We  saw  many  of  them  afterwards,  and  while  I  should 
scarcely  call  them  masterpieces,  their  restful  skies  and 
stretches  of  quiet  water  are  certainly  very  charming. 

There  are  two  other  show-places  at  The  Hague 
which  I  suppose  you  will  wish  to  visit,  the  royal 
palace  and  the  Huis  ten  Bosch,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
will  be  disappointed  in  them,  at  least  in  the  former. 
As  you  enter  the  royal  palace  and  cross  the  resplendent 
entrance  hall,  tap  one  of  the  imposing  marble  columns 
with  your  knuckle.  You  will  find  it  gives  off  a  hol- 
low sound,  for  it  is  not  marble,  but  plaster  very  clev- 
erly painted.  Most  of  the  marble  here  and  through- 
out the  palace  is  imitation  —  a  thing  which  I  cannot 
understand,  for  I  would  have  supposed  that  any  sensi- 
ble being  would  rather  live  surrounded  by  honest  oak, 
for  instance,  than  by  this  tawdry  pretence  of  grandeur. 

Indeed,  the  whole  palace  shows  a  disconcerting 
lack  of  taste,  for  the  decorations  are  garish  red  and 
white  and  gold,  of  the  most  extravagant  rococo,  and 
the  pictures  upon  the  walls  are  uninspired  representa- 
tions of  unimportant  occasions  in  which  Dutch  roy- 
alty figured,  or  wooden  presentments  of  the  same 
royalty's  wooden  faces.  The  palace  is  not  worth  a 
visit,  except  as  an  example  of  how  not  to  do  it  —  and, 
perhaps,  for  a  look  into  the  Java  room  on  the  ground 
floor. 

The  Huis  ten  Bosch  is  better  worth  while;  for,  in 
the  first  place,  the  way  to  it  leads  through  the  charm- 
ing Haagsche  Bosch,  or  Hague  wood,  a  beautiful 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        ill 

drive;  and,  in  the  second  place,  the  palace  itself  has 
a  number  of  associations  interesting  to  Americans. 
For  it  was  here  that  John  Lothrop  Motley  wrote  a 
portion  of  his  "  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  and  it 
was  here  that  the  first  International  Peace  Conference 
met  in  1899. 

The  chief  attraction  of  the  palace  is  the  orange 
saloon  where  this  conference  was  held,  an  octagonal 
hall  decorated  with  highly-coloured  paintings  relating 
to  the  achievements  of  Prince  Frederick  Henry  of 
Orange,  whose  widow  built  the  palace.  Nine  paint- 
ers are  said  to  have  laboured  four  years  on  these  pic- 
tures; but  that  does  not  make  them  good.  More  in- 
teresting is  the  parquet  floor,  ingeniously  laid  in  the 
form  of  a  spider-web.  Two  other  rooms  in  the  house, 
the  Chinese  room  and  Japanese  room,  should  be  vis- 
ited by  admirers  of  Oriental  faience  and  the  art  which 
delights  to  spend  a  lifetime  carving  a  cherry-stone. 
For  myself,  I  do  not  admire  a  chandelier  simply  be- 
cause it  is  made  of  cups  and  saucers,  or  a  table-top 
because  it  contains  a  million  bits  of  stone. 

Most  of  the  towns  of  Holland  make  a  specialty 
of  some  candy  or  confection.  At  The  Hague,  it  is 
the  Haagsche  Hopjes,  a  variety  of  coffee-flavoured 
bon-bon,  concerning  whose  origin  the  following  tale 
is  told.  In  1778,  the  Baron  Hop  was  ambassador  of 
the  Austrian  Netherlands  residing  at  The  Hague. 
This  nobleman  became  such  a  devote  of  coffee  that 
the  supply  available  at  meal-times  did  not  satisfy  his 


112  The  Spell  of  Holland 

craving,  and  he  thereupon  invented  a  coffee-flavoured 
confection  to  be  eaten  at  odd  moments,  so  that  the 
taste  of  the  berry  might  be  always  on  his  palate. 
There  were  many  other  devotes  of  the  same  sort  in 
Holland,  so  an  enterprising  firm  secured  his  recipe, 
and  put  the  bon-bon  on  the  market,  naming  it  after 
its  inventor.  This  recipe  has  never  left  this  firm's 
possession,  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  the  real 
Haagsche  Hopje  may  be  secured  only  from  it.  At 
least,  that  is  the  tale  the  firm  tells.  The  confection, 
while  good,  scarcely  merits  all  this  trumpeting,  and 
I  should  imagine  it  not  difficult  to  reproduce. 

At  Delft,  the  specialty  is  the  "  Delftsche  Jaap- 
maatjes,"  also  monopolized  by  a  single  firm,  which 
has  manufactured  them  for  over  a  hundred  years. 
We  got  some.  They  are  put  up  in  tin  boxes,  and 
are  little  flat  rectangular  cakes,  tasting  very  much  like 
crisp  and  well-baked  ginger-cakes.  At  Haarlem  there 
are  two  specialties,  halletjes  and  houtjes,  but  we  did 
not  sample  them,  and  I  must  leave  them  for  some 
other  traveller  to  describe. 

It  was  most  regretfully  next  morning,  that  we  bade 
the  head-waiter  at  the  Hotel  Central  good-bye  and 
turned  our  backs  on  Delft.  Both  Betty  and  I  had 
grown  fond  of  that  clean  and  pretty  city,  and  we 
hope  to  see  it  again  some  day.  But  we  were  soon 
rolling  away  toward  Haarlem,  with  the  familiar,  quiet, 
lovely  Dutch  landscape  unfolding  under  our  eyes. 

There  are  two  things  of  interest  in  Europe;    one 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        113 

is  Europe,  the  other  is  one's  fellow-travellers.  Europe 
has  been  described  many  times;  it  is  there  unchang- 
ing, and,  more  or  less,  the  same  for  all  of  us.  But 
our  fellow-travellers  are  our  own,  they  answer  to  our 
reaction,  they  are  never  quite  like  those  of  anyone 
else. 

There  is  no  better  place  to  study  human  nature,  to 
catch  it  with  the  mask  off,  than  in  a  European  railway 
train.  This  is  not  at  all  true  of  America,  because 
the  arrangement  of  our  passenger  coaches  discourages 
intimacy.  We  sit  with  our  backs  to  each  other ;  there 
is  not  that  coziness  nor  the  provocations  to  acquaint- 
anceship which  the  European  compartment  offers. 
For  instance,  here  in  America  we  don't  have  to  ask 
pardon  whenever  we  get  on  board  a  train  for  stum- 
bling over  our  fellow-travellers'  feet.  The  necessity 
for  so  doing  whenever  one  enters  a  train  in  Europe 
is  usually  the  opening  wedge  to  conversation,  for  it 
is  always  the  first  words  which  are  most  difficult. 

"  Beg  pardon,"  I  said,  that  morning,  as  I  entered 
the  train  at  Delft  and  stumbled  over  two  pairs  of 
protuberant  feet ;  and  then  proceeded  to  see  that  Betty 
had  the  best  seat  available  facing  the  engine  and  that 
our  luggage  was  safely  in  the  rack  overhead. 

Then  I  sat  down  and  glanced  at  the  owners  of  the 
feet  —  a  man  and  a  woman,  middle-aged,  weary- 
looking,  with  lack-lustre  eyes. 

"  I  guess  you're  from  the  States,  ain't  you  ?  "  asked 
the  man,  as  he  caught  my  glance. 

"Yes;    from  Ohio." 


114 The  Spell  of  Holland 

"We're  from  Chicago.     Been  over  here  long?" 

"  Not  very." 

"  We've  been  travellin'  for  two  years." 

"  Two  years !  "  I  echoed,  dismayed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  of  triumph,  "  and 
we're  figurin'  on  two  more  before  we  go  back  home. 
We've  done  Italy  and  France  —  " 

"  In  Paris  we  stayed  at  the  Grand  Hotel,"  put  in 
the  lady,  with  an  air  I  did  not  then  understand,  not 
having,  as  yet,  been  to  Paris.  Afterwards  I  under- 
stood. 

"  Yes,"  went  on  her  husband,  "  and  in  Rome  we 
also  stayed  at  the  Grand." 

I  have  never  been  to  Rome,  but  I  presume  the 
Roman  Grand  is  a  replica  of  the  Paris  one. 

"  I  suppose  you  enjoyed  Italy?  "  I  asked  tentatively. 

"  Oh,  so-so,"  said  the  man.  "  This  Europe  is  a 
pretty  run-down  place." 

"  But  one  has  to  see  it,  you  know,"  added  the  lady, 
answering  the  question  which  was  on  my  lips. 

"Been  staying  at  Delft?"  asked  the  man. 

"Yes,"  I  said;   "we've  been  there  nearly  a  week." 

"Pretty  slow,  ain't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes;    it's  slow;    but  then  it's  Dutch." 

"Going  to  The  Hague?" 

"No;    we've  been  there." 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  ?  " 

"We  didn't  stay  at  all,"  I  explained.  "We  ran 
over  from  Delft  three  or  four  times  and  looked 
around." 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        115 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  Chicagoan, 
astonished,  "  you  don't  call  that  seeing  Holland,  do 
you?  Why,  The  Hague's  the  capital.  We  expect  to 
stay  a  month  —  at  the  Old  Doelen  —  that's  the  best 
hotel  there,  I've  heard;  and  then  we're  going  on  to 
Scheven  —  or  whatever  the  name  of  the  place  is  — 
for  another  month." 

"  At  Scheven  we'll  stay  at  the  Palace,"  put  in  his 
wife. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  name.  You  see,  we're  taking  our 
time." 

"  You're  lucky  to  be  able  to,"  I  said. 

He  glowed  at  the  words,  and  his  wife  visibly 
preened  herself. 

"  Ya-as,"  he  agreed,  affecting  a  yawn.  "  And  we 
stay  only  at  the  best  hotels.  Ever  stay  at  the  Grand?  " 

"No,"  I  said;    "we'll  hit  Paris  later." 

"It's  a  dream!"  he  said.  "A  bit  expensive,  of 
course,"  he  added  deprecatingly. 

As  I  said,  I  have  since  seen  the  Grand;  have,  in- 
deed, gone  to  the  extent  of  taking  dinner  there.  A 
drearier  place  I  cannot  imagine  —  the  vestibule  full 
of  "  guides,"  and  nothing  but  English  in  the  corridors! 
I  wonder  what  the  Chicagoan  would  have  thought  of 
that  dear  little  inn  just  around  the  corner  from  the 
Louvre  where  we  spent  three  delightful  weeks?  Or, 
rather,  I  do  not  wonder,  for  I  can  see  his  nose  turning 
up  as  he  looks  at  it. 

I  was  glad  when  the  train  stopped  at  The  Hague, 
and  so  delivered  us  from  our  companions.  And  I 


116  The  Spell  of  Holland 

heard  Betty's  sigh  of  relief  as  she  settled  back  in  her 
corner. 

But  they  are  not  all  like  that. 

One  day,  a  nice-looking  young  couple  wandered  in 
—  it  was  a  corridor  train  —  looking  for  seats,  and, 
seeing  they  were  Americans,  we  hastily  made  room 
for  them.  They  sank  down  thankfully,  and  we  began 
to  talk.  They  were  from  Texas  and  were  travelling 
on  a  Cook's  circular  ticket,  which  was  made  up  in  a 
book  of  many  coupons. 

"  Theh's  anotheh  one  gone,"  the  Texan  said,  as 
the  guard  came  through  and  tore  one  out  of  the 
book. 

I  wondered  at  his  tone. 

"Do  you  mean  you're  glad?"  I  asked. 

"  Glad !  "  he  echoed.  "  Glad  ain't  strong  enough, 
suh!  I'll  be  so  almighty  delighted  when  I  come  to 
the  last  one  I  won't  know  what  to  do!  Why,  suh, 
this  country  is  fouh  hundred  yeahs  behind  the  times. 
Look  out  theah,  now,"  and  he  motioned  to  a  field 
where  some  men  were  cutting  hay  with  scythes. 
"  Wouldn't  that  make  you  ill  ?  Men  mowin'  like 
that,  an'  this  the  twentieth  century!  Takin'  a  week 
to  do  what  one  of  ouh  mowehs  would  do  in  ten 
minutes !  Have  you  eveh  been  to  Texas*  suh  ?  " 

"No,"  I  admitted;    "I  never  have." 

"  It's  God's  country.  Come  theah,  suh,  next  time, 
instead  of  to  this  old,  worn-out  antique.  Why,  suh, 
every  time  I  pay  a  bill  oveh  heah  I'm  ashamed  — 
ashamed  that  I'm  throwin'  away  among  these  rascals 


In  "  The  Count's  Enclosure  "        117 

the  good  money  that  was  made  in  Texas  and  ought 
to  be  spent  theah !  " 

He  lapsed  into  gloomy  silence,  while  the  two  ladies 
compared  notes  of  the  trip.  Finally  he  aroused 
himself. 

"  Do  you  smoke,  suh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  and  the  cheapness  of  good 
cigars  here  is  a  wonder." 

"  I  don't  cahe  foh  cigars." 

"I  smoke  a  pipe  myself,  at  home,"  I  exclaimed; 
"  but  it  seems  like  flying  in  the  face  of  providence  not 
to  consume  as  many  as  possible  of  these  cigars." 

"  What  tobacco  do  you  smoke,  suh  ?  " 

I  named  the  plebeian  brand  to  which  I  have  been 
addicted  since  my  college  days. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  said,  waking  to  sudden  life,  "  and 
I  ain't  had  any  foh  a  month  an'  three  days.  I  can't 
find  any  oveh  heah  —  I  can't  find  any  that  I  can 
smoke.  My  tongue's  hangin'  out !  " 

I  made  a  dive  for  my  bag,  and  fished  out  my 
tobacco  pouch. 

"  Here,"  I  said,  pressing  it  upon  him;   "  fill  up." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  gleam  in  his  eye  as  he 
got  out  his  cigarette  paper  —  for  he  smoked  it  in  that 
form.  Then  he  hesitated. 

"  We  can  go  out  in  the  corridor,"  I  said,  and  we 
spent  a  happy  half  hour  there  together,  while  he  told 
me  how  he  was  going  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  pecan 
trees. 

I  have  never  regretted  that  benefaction;    though 


118  The  Spell  of  Holland 

my  supply  of  the  precious  mixture  ran  out  one  day  in 
Germany,  and  I  burnt  the  skin  off  my  tongue  and 
nearly  killed  myself  trying  to  smoke  the  native  brands. 
But  that  story  is  too  tragic  to  tell  in  the  pages  of 
a  book  like  this! 


CHAPTER   IX 

ON    THE    ROAD   TO    SLOTERDIJK 

WE  found  a  bright  little  inn  at  Haarlem,  where 
even  the  head-waiter's  knowledge  of  English  was  of 
the  slightest;  but  we  were  growing  independent  of 
head-waiters  and  all  other  intermediaries  between  us 
and  the  Dutch  language.  Constant  use  of  our  little 
dictionary  was  giving  us  a  vocabulary,  besides  which 
there  were  always  the  street  signs  as  a  source  of 
education.  A  very  good  education  may  be  had  from 
street  signs  —  as  in  the  case  of  Sam  Weller,  who  was 
brought  up  on  them! 

And  here  let  me  correct  any  possible  misconception 
concerning  these  small  inns  of  Holland.  They  are 
not,  of  course,  as  elaborate  as  the  big  hotels  which 
are  built  to  cater  to  tourists  —  there  is  no  orchestra 
in  the  dining-room  (God  be  thanked!)  ;  but  they  are 
scrupulously,  spotlessly  clean,  and  in  them  you  are 
treated  like  a  fellow-human  and  not  like  a  victim. 
Sanitary  science  has  not,  perhaps,  made  the  advances 
in  Holland  that  it  has  with  us;  but  every  inn  we 
stayed  at,  and  there  were  a  lot  of  them,  had  a  bath- 
room and  the  ordinary  toilet  conveniences. 

I  have  said  that  they  were  clean;  but  they  were 
more  than  that.  The  mania  for  scrubbing  is  just 

119 


120  The  Spell  of  Holland 

as  great  in  these  inns  as  in  private  houses,  and  more 
than  once  have  we  returned  to  our  room  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  to  find  it  turned  upside-down  and  inside- 
out  for  the  semi-weekly  cleaning.  The  bed-linen  was 
always  immaculate,  the  beds  most  comfortable,  and 
the  attendants  in  a  tremble  of  agitation  in  their  eager- 
ness to  be  of  service.  And  this  eagerness  was  not 
from  hope  of  a  tip,  but  from  desire  to  make  the  guest 
comfortable. 

To  be  sure,  the  bath-rooms  were  sometimes  primi- 
tive; but  water  is  always  water,  however  it  is  got 
into  the  tub;  and,  lacking  a  sense  of  humour  and  a 
disposition  to  make  the  best  of  things,  no  man  can 
be  a  really  successful  traveller.  At  Delft,  one  even- 
ing, I  asked  for  a  hot  bath,  and,  ten  minutes  later, 
made  my  way  to  the  bath-room,  where  I  found  a  maid 
and  a  waiter  staring  with  starting  eyes  at  the  heater. 
I  fancy  that  neither  of  them  had  had  much  occasion 
to  use  that  heater;  at  any  rate,  they  had  allowed 
the  gas  to  accumulate  beneath  it  before  touching  the 
match,  with  the  result  that  it  went  off  with  a  bang 
and  a  blaze  that  frightened  them  nearly  out  of  their 
wits.  They  had  hastily  turned  the  gas  off,  and  were 
afraid  to  turn  it  on  again.  When  we  finally  got  it 
started  nicely,  and  the  hot  water  pouring  from  the 
faucet,  you  never  saw  two  more  delighted  people. 
They  confided  to  me  afterwards  that,  rather  than  run 
any  further  risk  with  the  heater,  they  had  decided 
to  carry  up  the  water  from  the  kitchen. 

Nor  shall  I  soon  forget  the  bath-room  of  the  inn 


On  the  Road  to  Sloterdijk          121 

at  Kampen,  where  the  preparing  of  a  bath  was  a 
matter  of  such  high  moment  that  it  could  be  entrusted 
only  to  the  proprietor  himself,  and  where  the  bath- 
tub was  almost  big  enough  to  swim  in ! 

So  do  not  imagine  that  there  is  any  loss  of  com- 
fort by  going  to  these  modest  inns.  Indeed,  there 
is  often  a  gain  in  comfort;  and  a  very  great  gain 
in  studying  Dutch  characteristics  and  in  meeting  Dutch 
people.  After  all,  one  goes  to  a  country  to  see  the 
people  and  to  observe  their  customs,  and  one  cer- 
tainly does  neither  at  the  hotels  "  patronized  by  Eng- 
lish and  Americans,"  where  even  the  waiters  are 
French!  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  you  never 
eat  a  typical  Dutch  meal  at  any  of  them.  But  I  shall 
tell  about  Dutch  meals  by  and  by. 

Haarlem  is  also  a  town  where  you  will  need  your 
Motley,  for,  like  Leiden,  it  suffered  siege  by  the 
Spaniards;  but,  unlike  Leiden,  William  of  Orange 
was  unable  to  succour  it  and,  with  its  citizens  starving 
in  the  streets,  it  was  finally  forced  to  yield  to  Alva's 
son  after  a  resistance  the  most  heroic.  Warned  by 
the  fate  of  other  towns  which  had  fallen  before  that 
fierce  soldiery,  the  burghers  prepared  for  a  desperate 
sortie,  to  cut  their  way  through  the  Spanish  lines,  with 
their  women  and  children  in  their  midst.  But  Don 
Frederic  promised  them  their  lives,  if  they  would  sur- 
render; and  at  once  proceeded  to  slaughter  them,  as 
soon  as  the  town  was  his.  The  women  and  children 
found  refuge  in  the  Groote  Kerk;  but  the  clergy,  the 


124  The  Spell  of  Holland 

ful  country,  striking  off  to  the  south  across  the  Haar- 
lemmer  polder,  along  a  tree-bordered  road,  past  red- 
roofed  farm  houses,  with  outbuildings  clustered  about 
them,  and  great  ricks  of  hay  overtopping  even  the 
barns;  each  cluster  of  buildings  nestling  in  a  grove 
of  trees  and  surrounded  by  a  narrow  canal  as  by  a 
moat,  with  a  bridge  leading  out  to  the  road  in  front 
and  another  to  the  fields  in  the  rear.  Rows  of  crocks 
and  pans  and  other  utensils  of  dairying  were  drying 
and  sweetening  in  the  sun,  and  we  could  catch 
glimpses  of  the  women,  their  skirts  tucked  up,  hurry- 
ing about  with  pails  and  brushes,  intent  on  their  never- 
ending  cleaning.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
more  cozy  and  homelike  than  these  little  farmsteads, 
and,  though  life  there  is  doubtless  hard  enough,  their 
occupants  seem  happy  and  contented.  And  the  softer 
things  of  life  are  not  lacking  either,  for  every  house 
had  its  little  flower  garden,  gay  with  roses  and  gera- 
niums. 

The  day  was  a  perfect  one,  soft  and  warm,  with 
the  bluest  of  blue  skies  tempered  here  and  there  by 
the  fleeciest  of  clouds  —  the  typical  Dutch  sky  of 
Ruisdael  and  Hobbema.  To  take  advantage  of  this 
splendid  weather,  the  hay-makers  were  out  in  force, 
turning  the  green  hay  over  and  over  with  long  forks, 
or  loading  the  cured  hay  upon  high-beamed  wagons 
to  be  carried  away  to  the  ricks,  which  grew  every 
hour  higher  and  higher.  The  ricks  are  simple  affairs 
—  four  tall  and  massive  poles  upon  which  a  thatched 
roof  slides  up  and  down.  The  roofs  are  carried  to 


On  the  Road  to  Sloterdijk          125 

a  sharp  point  at  the  centre,  and  when  the  rick  is  full 
and  the  roof  at  its  topmost  notch,  the  whole  affair 
looks  startlingly  like  a  Chinese  pagoda. 

The  fields  are  separated  from  each  other  by  ditches 
full  of  water,  so  that  the  wagons  had  to  be  driven 
around  to  the  bridge;  but  the  labourers  hopped 
across  wherever  they  wanted  to  by  means  of  little 
poles.  Many  swans,  both  white  and  black,  with  little 
gray  woolly  broods,  were  swimming  about  in  the 
water  and  bringing  up  samples  of  the  bottom.  It 
rather  goes  against  our  ideas  to  use  for  food  a  fowl 
so  decorative;  but  swans  are  so  used  in  Holland 
pretty  generally,  and  have  been  from  time  immemorial, 
as  the  Dutch  pictures  prove.  Few  of  the  old  pictures 
of  dead  game  —  and  there  are  hundreds  of  them  upon 
the  walls  of  the  galleries  of  the  Netherlands  —  but 
show  a  great  white  swan  among  the  pigeons  and  par- 
tridges and  hares. 

One  would  think  these  canals  too  small  to  harbour 
fish,  and  yet  there  were  many  fishermen  sitting  along 
them;  and  we  saw  one,  a  boy,  with  a  rod  about  a 
yard  long,  catch  five  or  six  diminutive  silver-scaled 
fish,  something  like  those  which  in  my  own  youth 
we  used  to  call  "  lamp-lighters."  The  borders  of 
these  little  canals  make  famous  grounds  for  wild- 
flowers,  and  were  bright  that  day  with  delicate  va- 
nilla, and  turquoise-blue  forget-me-nots,  and  scarlet 
poppies,  and  ox-eyed  daisies,  while  the  ditches  them- 
selves were  gorgeous  with  yellow  flags  and  white  and 
yellow  water-lilies.  These  water-lilies,  the  most 


126  The  Spell  of  Holland 

beautiful  imaginable,  fill  the  ditches  and  edge  the 
canals  all  over  Holland,  but  the  Dutch  do  not  seem 
to  care  for  them,*  and  only  once,  at  Gouda,  did  we 
see  any  offered  for  sale.  All  through  Holland  the 
fields  are  spangled  with  buttercups  and  daisies,  just 
as  they  are  in  England. 

It  is  an  old  joke  that  the  Dutch  have  rescued  their 
land  from  the  water,  only  to  consign  it  to  the  flames, 
because  the  principal  fuel  of  the  country  is  peat,  and 
wherever  the  peat  is  dug  out  the  water  rushes  in. 
Some  of  it  is  dredged  up  from  the  bottom  of  the 
canals,  so  that  two  birds  are  killed  with  one  stone, 
and  we  had  seen  piles  of  this  drying  along  the  bank. 
We  were  now  to  witness  the  more  destructive  process. 

About  a  mile  beyond  Halfweg,  we  came  to  the 
great  peat-fields  which  were  once  the  bottom  of  the 
Haarlemmer  Meer,  and,  ages  before  that,  a  swamp 
covered  with  the  rank  growth  which  time  has  turned 
into  peat.  Two  men  were  busily  engaged  in  cutting 
it,  using  for  the  purpose  a  sharp  spade-like  imple- 
ment, and  never  pausing  in  their  labour ;  and  all  along 
the  field  nearest  the  road,  great  piles  of  the  peat 
bricks  were  stacked  up  to  dry.  Wherever  this  had 
been  cut,  the  water  had  poured  in,  and,  instead  of 
broad  fields  divided  by  narrow  canals,  the  country 
had  been  converted  into  wide  sheets  of  water  divided 
by  narrow  strips  of  land.  When  one  considers  that 
this  is  going  on  pretty  much  all  over  Holland,  the 
problem  which  the  country  faces  would  seem  to  be 
a  serious  one.  I  suppose,  in  the  end,  the  government 


CUTTING    PEAT    ON    THE    HAARLEMMER   POLDER. 


PEAT   DRYING    FOR   MARKET. 


On  the  Road  to  Sloterdijk          127 

will  have  to  put  a  stop  to  peat-digging,  except  upon 
the  higher  ground  to  the  east,  and  compel  the  inhabit- 
ants to  use  the  more  expensive  coal,  mostly  brought 
in  from  Belgium. 

That  will  mean  a  great  readjustment,  for  now  the 
peat  traffic  is  an  important  feature  of  Dutch  life. 
The  canals  are  filled  with  barges  carrying  it  to  mar- 
ket, or  returning  to  the  peat-fields  laden  with  sweep- 
ings and  debris  to  dump  into  the  holes  from  which 
the  peat  has  been  taken;  and  the  streets  of  the  towns 
are  busy  with  little  carts  peddling  the  brown  bricks 
from  door  to  door,  so  that  the  peat  business  gives 
employment  to  a  large  number  of  persons.  It  seems 
a  convenient  fuel,  as  well  as  a  cheap  one,  and  we 
grew  to  like  its  pungent  odour.  Yes  —  and  if  there 
is  no  more  peat,  what  will  become  of  those  little  foot- 
warmers  which  have  been  used  in  every  Dutch  house 
for  hundreds  of  years,  and  which  I  have  already 
described  ? 

We  lingered  for  quite  a  while  watching  the  peat- 
cutters  at  work,  and  then  went  leisurely  onward, 
through  a  tiny  village  of  not  more  than  a  dozen  houses, 
along  a  road  shaded  by  trees  of  more  than  usual 
beauty,  and  then  back  along  a  cross-road  toward  the 
tram-line.  We  stopped  for  a  time  to  admire  a  friendly 
drove  of  little  black-and-white  calves,  who  obligingly 
posed  for  their  portraits,  —  and  it  wasn't  their  fault 
that  I  didn't  get  a  good  one !  —  and  then,  at  the  en- 
trance to  a  quaint  old  house,  we  made  an  acquaintance. 

It  was  a  peddler  driving  a  cart  to  which  three  dogs 


128  The  Spell  of  Holland 

were  harnessed.  A  collection  of  brushes  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes  dangled  from  a  high  framework  running 
lengthwise  of  the  cart,  and  its  bed  was  also  heaped 
with  brushes,  while  from  the  sides  hung  many  pairs 
of  wooden  shoes.  The  demand  for  both  commodi- 
ties must  be  very  heavy  in  Holland! 

I  was  preparing  to  take  a  picture  of  the  outfit,  which 
was  certainly  most  picturesque,  when  the  proprietor 
himself  hurried  out  of  the  house  and  posed  himself 
in  the  background,  plainly  delighted  to  do  so.  I 
snapped  the  picture,  and  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket 
to  extract  a  few  pennies,  but  he  sprang  forward, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  Neen,  neen ! "  he  cried,  and  swept  the  wooden 
shoes  away  from  the  front  of  his  cart,  and  pointed 
to  the  name  there : 

C.    BARKER, 

Sloterdijk. 

Then  he  pointed  to  himself  and  to  the  camera. 

I  understood,  of  course,  and  promised  him  that  he 
should  have  one  of  the  photographs,  which  was  duly 
sent  forward  to  him  afterwards.  When  we  reached 
home  again,  we  found  a  postal  awaiting  us  from 
Mr.  Bakker  thanking  us  for  the  picture,  and  wishing 
us  health  and  good  fortune.  I  hope  I  may  see  him 
again  some  time,  and  I  am  sorry  the  picture  was  not 
a  better  one,  but  the  shade  was  too  deep  for  a  snap- 
shot. 

We   walked   on   along   the   road   to    Sloterdijk,   a 


On  the  Road  to  Sloterdijk          129 

beautiful  little  village  built  in  a  semi-circle,  with  its 
back  to  the  canal,  with  the  housewives  at  their  doors 
chattering  with  the  peddlers,  and  a  picturesque  old 
tap-room  with  a  few  rustics  sitting  at  the  tables.  We 
had  lunch  in  the  garden  of  a  cafe  overlooking  the 
canal,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  watching  the  life  about 
us.  Across  from  us  a  man  was  painfully  unloading 
sand  from  a  scow,  by  shovelling  it  into  a  wheelbarrow 
and  then  wheeling  it  ashore  up  a  steep  plank.  Why 
he  did  not  simply  shovel  it  ashore  I  don't  know. 

Some  boys  were  fishing  in  the  canal,  which  was 
quite  wide  and  deep,  and  we  were  the  witnesses  of 
a  tragedy.  One  of  the  boys  pulled  out  a  good-sized 
fish  —  for  Holland  —  and,  as  it  had  got  all  full  of 
sand  when  he  whacked  it  down  on  the  bank,  he 
picked  it  up  and  ran  to  wash  it  in  the  canal.  At  the 
feel  of  the  water,  the  fish  gave  a  wriggle  and  flipped 
itself  out  of  its  captor's  hand,  and  was  off.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  boy's  face  as  he  stared  at  the  spot 
where  the  fish  had  disappeared  —  it  was  most  comical 
with  dismay.  Then  he  saw  us  laughing  at  him;  his 
face  changed;  he  laughed  back,  waved  his  hand,  and 
sat  down  like  a  philosopher  to  catch  another. 

We  caught  the  tram  back  to  Haarlem,  after 
awhile,  and  had  dinner  that  evening  at  the  Cafe-Res- 
taurant Brinkmann,  overlooking  the  beautiful  market- 
place, and  with  a  dignified  head-waiter  who  looks 
like  Arthur  Pryor.  It  is  a  nice  place,  and  we  went 
there  many  times  during  our  stay  at  Haarlem. 

While  we  sat  there  that  evening,  over  our  coffee, 


130 The  Spell  of  Holland 

looking  out  into  the  busy  square,  a  little  fire-engine, 
drawn  by  eight  or  ten  men,  rattled  by,  in  the  midst 
of  an  excited  crowd,  and  we  followed  along  to  the 
fire.  Smoke  was  pouring  from  the  upper  windows 
of  a  house  on  a  side  street,  but  the  police  kept  the 
crowd  back,  not  without  much  savage  argumentation 
with  obstreperous  boys.  The  policemen  wear  fierce- 
looking  sabres,  but  I  doubt  if  they  know  how  to  use 
them.  They  are  certainly  themselves  anything  but 
fierce-looking! 

That  was  the  only  fire  we  saw  in  Holland;  and 
I  should  imagine  that  fires  there  are  very  rare,  for  the 
houses  are  practically  all  of  brick,  with  tile  roofs  and 
tile  floors.  The  stoves  are  usually  great  porcelain 
affairs,  sometimes  most  elaborately  decorated.  How 
effective  they  are  I  do  not  know.  I  have  never  seen 
any  in  use  —  as  a  stove ;  in  summer  they  are  used  as 
cupboards  or  refrigerators,  and  seem  to  make  good 
ones! 


CHAPTER    X 

HAARLEM 

THE  interest  of  Haarlem  centres  about  its  market- 
place, one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Holland.  At  one 
side  rises  the  immense  mass  of  the  Groote  Kerk,  or 
Church  of  St.  Bavo,  as  it  was  originally,  next  to  which 
is  the  unique  vleeschhal  or  meat-market,  and  facing 
it  across  the  square  the  old  stadhuis. 

One  may  go  from  the  station  to  the  Groote  Markt 
by  tram,  as  I  have  said;  but  I  would  advise  you  to 
walk;  for  the  street  is  a  quaint,  narrow,  twisty  one, 
and  there  never  were  such  entrancing  shop-windows 
as  those  which  border  it.  Especially  the  bake-shop 
windows,  for  Holland  is  pre-eminently  the  land  of 
cakes  and  cookies.  I  never  thought  so  many  differ- 
ent kinds  of  little  cakes  existed,  and,  more  wonderful 
still,  they  all  looked  supremely  good. 

Along  this  street,  too,  is  an  unusual  assortment  of 
gapers  —  the  gaping  Turk's  head  which,  in  Holland, 
is  the  sign  of  the  chemist's  shop.  I  have  searched 
in  vain  for  a  reasonable  explanation  of  that  sign. 
You  will  see  it  in  every  Dutch  city  —  a  face  some- 
times quite  dark,  sometimes  lighter,  sometimes  quite 
white,  with  wide-open  mouth,  very  red  on  the  inside, 
and  staring  eyes,  the  head  crowned  with  a  resplen- 

131 


132  The  Spell  of  Holland 

dent  turban.  Usually  the  sign  is  over  the  door,  but 
later  on,  at  Zwolle,  we  found  a  beautiful  one  gaping 
from  a  window-sill.  Perhaps  the  sign  is  a  survival 
of  the  old  days  when  the  popular  medicines  were 
snakes'  livers  and  frogs'  eyes  and  such-like  things, 
and  when  the  druggist  was  supposed  to  be  an  adept 
in  the  lore  of  the  Orient.  The  shops  are  modern 
enough  now,  and  the  person  in  charge  is  usually  a 
bright-faced  girl  of  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to  make 
a  purchase. 

The  bright,  particular  star  of  the  Groote  Markt 
is  the  vleeschhal,  whose  use  is  indicated  by  the 
sheep's  and  steers'  heads  which  ornament  it.  Built 
in  1602  by  Leiven  de  Kay,  it  is  one  of  the  quaintest 
brick-and-stone  buildings  existing  anywhere  on  this 
earth.  Around  at  the  back  of  the  building,  you  will 
find  a  little  door  with  an  iron  knocker.  Knock  at 
this,  and  presently  the  custodian  will  come  and  let 
you  in.  It  is  a  visit  not  to  be  omitted. 

The  market-hall  occupies  the  entire  lower  floor  of 
the  building,  the  great  doors  at  either  end  opening 
directly  into  it.  It  is  now  crowded  with  cases  con- 
taining the  archives  of  North  Holland.  The  floor 
above  is  gained  by  a  narrow  winding  stone  stairway 
in  one  corner.  Here  was  the  meeting-place  of  various 
corporations  or  guilds,  a  great  beamed  chamber  with 
the  side-beams  also  showing,  all  of  oak  and  as  solid 
as  the  day  it  was  built.  The  hall  is  divided  into 
smaller  rooms  by  screens  of  leaded  glass,  and  the 
beautiful  old  furniture  and  priceless  tapestries  which 


A    ZWOLLE    GAPER. 


A    HAARLEM    GAPER. 


Haarlem  133 

adorn  these  rooms  combine  to  give  one  some  idea 
of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  the  bodies  which 
met  here. 

You  will  find  it  always  true  that,  in  viewing  a 
building  such  as  this,  your  own  interest  reacts  on 
your  guide's,  and  that  his  enthusiasm  mounts  with 
yours.  Our  guide  at  the  vleeschhal  was  a  young 
clerk  or  scrivener  with  some  knowledge  of  English, 
and  the  more  we  wanted  to  know,  the  more  he  wanted 
to  tell  us.  And  finally,  when  we  were  looking  at  the 
long  quill  pens  on  the  table,  he  went  to  a  drawer, 
got  out  a  swan's  feather  and  made  us  a  pen  as  a 
souvenir  of  the  visit. 

Next  to  the  meat-hall  in  interest  is  the  Groote 
Kerk,  one  of  the  few  churches  in  Holland  which  it 
is  a  delight  to  visit.  Its  exterior  is  much  more  satis- 
fying to  the  eye  than  that  of  most  Dutch  churches, 
and  the  picturesque  effect  is  heightened  by  the  un- 
usually quaint  huddle  of  houses  clinging  to  its  but- 
tresses. The  windows  have  not  been  walled  up,  the 
aisles  are  covered  by  sloping  roofs  and  not  by  gables, 
and  the  tracery  of  the  windows  is  of  stone,  flowing 
decorated,  and  very  beautiful.  The  lower  part  of  the 
church  is  of  brick  and  the  clerestory  of  stone,  with 
the  buttresses  faced  with  stone  all  the  way  down. 
There  are  no  flying  buttresses,  and  the  interior  vault- 
ing is  of  wood,  though  it  is  supported  by  stone  groin- 
ing. Stone  vaulting  is  used  only  at  the  crossing  of 
nave  and  transept,  where  the  great  central  buttresses 
carry  the  thrust;  but  I  fancy  it  was  intended  origi- 


134  The  Spell  of  Holland 

nally  to  use  stone  vaulting  throughout,  because  on  the 
buttresses  of  the  clerestory  places  were  left  for  the 
flying  buttresses  to  start  from.  The  building  as  a 
whole  is  immense  and  impressive,  and  you  have  only 
to  look  at  one  of  the  Ruisdael's  pictures  of  Haarlem 
to  see  how  its  mass  dominates  the  town. 

The  interior  is  also  satisfying,  despite  the  clutter 
of  pews  and  benches  in  the  nave,  and  the  flamboyant 
organ  towering  at  the  west  end.  The  organ  is  a 
feature  of  every  Dutch  church,  and  the  more  elabo- 
rate it  is,  the  more  it  seems  to  be  esteemed.  That 
at  Haarlem  is  nearly  two  centuries  old.  There  was 
no  organ  in  existence  to  compare  with  it  when  it  was 
built,  and  it  remains  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
powerful  in  the  world.  To  hear  its  deep  tones  roll- 
ing through  the  church  is  truly  awe-inspiring.  Handel 
has  played  this  organ,  and  one  day  a  boy  of  ten  came 
into  the  church  while  the  organist  was  practising  and 
asked  permission  to  try  it.  The  organist  consented; 
the  boy  took  his  place  on  the  bench,  and  such  music 
burst  forth  as  that  church  had  never  heard  —  for 
the  name  of  that  boy  was  Mozart.  The  old  stalls 
remain  in  the  choir,  and  by  some  miracle  are  almost 
unmutilated,  with  many-coloured  coats-of-arms  above 
the  seats,  and  the  carving  plain  but  good.  Quaint 
animals  decorate  the  arms,  while  under  the  miserere 
seats  are  grote  ±u°  heads.  One  evidently  has  the 
tooth-ache,  for  it  is  swathed  in  a  voluminous  band- 
age. 

Some  of  the  old  decorations  on  the  pillars  of  the 


INTERIOR    OF    GROOTE    KERK,    HAARLEM. 


;?;    4:  :>.,.. 


r  Vk  'v  V 


CHOIR-STALLS,    GROOTE    KERK,    HAARLEM. 


Haarlem  135 

choir  have  recently  been  relieved  of  their  coat  of 
white-wash,  and  seem  to  be  intended  to  represent 
rugs  or  tapestries  hung  against  them.  They  have, 
at  least,  that  effect.  A  few  old  stained  glass  windows 
also  survive,  and  the  carving  of  the  ambulatory  screen 
is  very  fine.  In  the  nave  is  a  monument  to  Conrad, 
the  engineer  who  constructed  the  great  locks  at 
Katwijk  by  which  the  Rhine  is  discharged  into  the 
sea,  and  at  one  end  of  the  transept  is  an  old  coffin- 
case  of  iron,  but  the  koster's  command  of  English, 
did  not  suffice  for  him  to  tell  us  its  history.  He  did, 
however,  show  us  a  cannon-ball  imbedded  in  the 
wall  —  a  memento  of  the  great  siege  of  1573. 

The  church  has  a  unique  decoration  in  a  little  fleet 
of  three  tiny  ships,  hanging  one  behind  the  other  in 
the  south  aisle,  with  sails  spread  and  flags  flying, 
just  as  though  they  were  sailing  away  past  Texel 
bound  for  the  Indies.  They  date  from  1688,  having 
been  given  to  the  church  by  the  "  Schonenvaarders- 
gild,"  or  Dutch-Swedish  Trading  Company,  and 
show  exactly  the  sort  of  ship  the  Dutch  went  to  sea 
in  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago.  They  replace  three 
others  hung  here  in  the  church  as  a  votive  offering 
by  Count  William  I.,  to  commemorate  the  fifth  cru- 
sade, of  which  he  was  the  leader.  The  old  models 
fell  to  pieces  at  last,  and  these  later  ones  were  hung 
up  instead.  These  are  interesting,  but  how  much 
more  interesting  those  old  ones  would  have  been ! 

I  paused  for  a  last  look  about  the  church,  as  we 
turned  to  go,  and  pictured  to  myself  the  scene  on 


136  The  Spell  of  Holland 

that  July  afternoon,  in  1573,  when  the  women  and 
the  children  of  the  town  crouched  here  on  the  pave- 
ment, praying  frantically  to  God,  while  the  city  gates 
were  opened  to  Alva  and  his  Spaniards.  What 
sounds  of  the  slaughter  that  followed  penetrated  to 
them  we  can  guess  —  what  shrieks,  what  cries  of 
agony  and  rage;  but  they  themselves  seem  to  have 
been  spared  those  greater  horrors  which  marked  most 
Spanish  victories,  and  for  this  mercy  no  doubt  were 
thankful,  though  husbands  and  fathers  and  lovers  lay 
flung  apart  in  the  gutters. 

Haarlem  has  another  memento  of  that  day  in  the 
piece  of  lace  which  is  still  hung  at  the  door  of  a 
house  where  the  stork  is  expected  or  has  just  arrived. 
Moved  by  unaccustomed  tenderness,  Don  Frederic 
promised  that  no  house  should  be  disturbed  where 
a  woman  lay  in  child-bed,  and  commanded  that  a 
piece  of  lace  be  displayed  at  the  door  of  every  such 
house.  More  wonderful  still,  he  kept  the  promise, 
and  to  this  day  the  same  token  is  used  to  announce 
the  arrival  of  a  baby.  If  the  lace  is  draped  over 
a  pink  silk  ball,  the  baby  is  a  boy;  if  combined  with 
tinselled  paper,  the  baby  is  a  girl;  if  the  lace  is 
double,  the  family  has  been  increased  by  twins.  It 
used  to  be  that  this  lace  at  the  front  door  guarded 
the  house  for  ten  days  from  all  creditors,  and  per- 
haps it  still  does.  From  Haarlem,  the  custom  has 
spread  all  over  the  province,  and  the  amount  of 
lace  displayed  argues  well  for  the  perpetuity  of  the 
Dutch  people. 


Haarlem  137 

In  the  centre  of  the  Groote  Markt  stands  a  bronze 
statue  of  Laurenz  Janszoon  Koster,  with  his  name 
in  Latin  on  the  front  of  the  pedestal,  and  "  Typo- 
graphic letteris  mobilibus  metallo  fusis  inventor " 
on  one  side  —  a  bold  claim  which  later  investigation 
has  disproved.  The  legend  is  that  Koster,  who  was 
born  in  Haarlem  toward  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  walking  one  day  with  his  family  in  the  wood 
to  the  south  of  the  town,  to  amuse  his  children  broke  a 
branch  from  a  beech-tree  and  cut  some  letters  in  relief 
upon  it.  Returning  home,  he  watched  the  children  dip- 
ping these  letters  in  ink  and  pressing  them  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  the  idea  of  printing  with  movable  type  oc- 
curred to  him.  He  experimented,  perfected  his  appa- 
ratus, and  finally,  in  1440,  printed  a  book,  the  "  Specu- 
lum Humanae  Salvationist'  On  Christmas  night,  of 
that  year,  he  took  part  in  the  midnight  Mass  at  the 
cathedral  to  thank  God  for  permitting  him  to  accom- 
plish a  thing  so  great;  but  on  returning  home,  he 
found  that  one  of  his  workmen  had  disappeared, 
carrying  with  him  his  type  and  his  instruments,  and 
had  destroyed  all  the  copies  of  the  book  which  he 
had  just  completed.  Poor  Koster  was  so  overcome 
by  this  misfortune  that  he  sank  down  in  a  fit  from 
which  he  never  rallied. 

Now,  proceeds  the  legend,  this  knavish  servant  was 
none  other  than  Faust  of  Magonza,  the  elder  brother 
of  Gutenberg.  He  crossed  into  Germany  with  his 
plunder,  and  a  few  years  later,  the  first  book  printed 
from  movable  type  came  from  Gutenberg's  press- 


138 The  Spell  of  Holland 

The  Dutch  believed  all  this  for  many  years,  set  up 
the  statue  of  Koster  in  the  market-place,  and  another 
statue  in  the  wood,  on  the  spot  where  he  broke  that 
branch  from  the  tree.  Both  statues  still  endure,  but 
the  legend  has  long  since  been  exploded,  and  to  Guten- 
berg belongs  the  glory  of  having  been  the  inventor  of 
printing  with  movable  type.  The  most  that  Haarlem 
can  claim  for  herself  is  that  she  was  the  first  Dutch 
town  to  set  up  a  printing  press ;  but  all  Holland  soon 
resounded  with  hurrying  presses,  it  became  the  great 
printing-house  of  Europe;  its  greatest  glory  the  shop 
of  the  Elsevirs  at  Leiden. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Groote  Markt  stands  the 
old  stadhuis  —  a  building  interesting  not  only  in 
itself,  but  in  its  contents.  It  dates  from  the  twelfth 
century,  and  was  originally  one  of  the  residences  of 
the  powerful  Counts  of  Holland.  It  was  afterwards 
acquired  by  the  town,  and  converted  into  a  town- 
hall.  The  larger  portion  of  it  is  now  used  as  a 
museum.  One  enters  at  the  lower  door  and  mounts 
into  a  great  beamed-room  with  a  handsome  fire-place, 
evidently  the  banquetting-hall  in  the  old  days,  but  now 
empty  save  for  a  few  tables  and  chairs.  At  one 
end  there  is  a  bell  to  ring,  and  you  are  ushered  into 
the  museum,  whose  chief  glory  is  a  collection  of 
great  corporation  pieces  by  Frans  Hals  —  a  collection 
unrivalled  elsewhere.  Aside  from  these,  the  gem  of 
the  collection  is  a  little  "  Cupid  and  Venus  "  by  C. 
B.  Van  Everdigen,  the  drawing  and  colouring  of  which 
are  wonderfully  done.  Cupid  is  tickling  his  mother 


Haarlem  139 

under  the  chin  and  she  is  laughing  right  out  of  the 
canvas. 

Of  the  corporation  paintings  I  feel  scarcely  compe- 
tent to  speak.  For  myself,  I  do  not  care  for  them; 
they  are  too  crowded,  too  overloaded  with  detail,  to 
be  pictures  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word.  However 
admirable  may  be  the  grouping,  the  drawing,  the 
painting,  and  however  interesting  the  faces  of  the 
sitters,  I  cannot  appreciate  a  picture  which  refuses 
to  be  seen  as  a  whole,  but  which  has  a  dozen  points 
of  interest  to  which  the  eyes  are  continually  shifting. 
Please  understand,  this  is  merely  a  personal  opinion; 
but  for  myself,  I  would  rather  have  his  "  Jolly  Man," 
who  leers  from  the  wall  at  the  Rijks,  or  his  "  Jester," 
or  his  portrait  of  himself  and  his  wife  than  all  the 
corporation  pieces  Frans  Hals  ever  painted. 

There  is  a  registry  book  at  the  museum  in  which 
each  visitor  writes  his  name,  and  the  custodian 
showed  us  with  great  pride  the  signature  of  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  occupying  an  entire  page.  As  we  were 
coming  out,  a  man  in  livery,  on  the  lookout,  of  course, 
for  a  tip,  motioned  us  through  another  door,  and  con- 
ducted us  to  the  meeting-room  of  the  burgomeester 
and  the  city  fathers.  I  wonder  if  any  city  council 
in  America  ever  had  such  a  room?  It  was  most 
beautiful  and  impressive,  with  a  great  Gobelin  tapes- 
try along  one  wall.  The  tables  were  of  polished 
oak,  aged  to  a  lovely  brown,  each  with  its  quill 
pen  and  pewter  inkwell  shining  like  burnished 
silver. 


140  The  Spell  of  Holland 

As  we  came  out,  I  could  not  but  speculate  as  to 
whether  it  might  not  pay  to  experiment  along  this 
line  with  American  councils  and  boards  of  aldermen. 
If  we  should  provide  them  with  meeting-rooms  of 
high  dignity  and  beauty,  cleansed  of  all  cheap  and 
tawdry  things,  would  such  surroundings,  I  wonder, 
impress  themselves  upon  the  councilmen,  and  give  them 
added  dignity  and  beauty,  too?  I  am  inclined  to 
think  so;  to  make  the  council-chamber  a  room  so 
beautiful  that  it  would  be  a  privilege  to  enter  it  would 
surely  have  its  effect  upon  the  business  transacted 
there ! 

We  went  out,  that  afternoon,  to  Zandvoort,  a 
seaside  resort  built  in  the  last  few  years  around  an 
old  cluster  of  fishermen's  huts  huddling  behind  the 
dunes.  The  new  hotels  and  villas,  whose  occupants 
visit  Zandvoort  only  in  the  summer,  have  no  such 
necessity  of  protection  from  the  bitter  winds  of 
winter,  and  are  built  on  top  of  the  dunes,  defiantly 
facing  the  sea.  The  old  part  is,  of  course,  the  more 
picturesque  and  interesting,  with  its  little  crooked 
streets  and  squat  houses,  painted  white  or  yellow 
with  red  tiled  roofs.  No  costume  was  perceptible 
save  that  rough  and  serviceable  one  which  poverty 
and  heavy  toil  make  necessary. 

The  dunes  extend  inland  for  some  distance,  and  the 
electric  tram  runs  through  them,  skirting  a  beautiful 
old  winding  road,  shaded  by  magnificent  trees,  along 
which  one  would  love  to  wander.  The  villas  begin 


Haarlem  141 

before  the  higher  line  of  dunes  is  reached  and  continue 
to  the  sea-front.  They  are  all  new  and  clean,  with 
shutters  painted  in  red  and  white  diamonds,  and  most 
of  them  are  named  "  Marie,"  or  "  Hildegarde,"  or 
"  Antoinette,"  or  some  other  female  appellation.  I 
speculated  somewhat  as  to  whether  these  were  the 
names  of  the  owners'  wives,  or  merely  ideal  names  — 
but  I  finally  rejected  the  last  idea,  as  leading  to  un- 
ending complications. 

The  villas,  as  I  have  said,  are  very  bright  and 
attractive,  but  the  surroundings  are  as  yet  rude  and 
scrubby  and  very  sandy.  But  the  Dutchman  has  a  way 
of  making  the  wilderness  blossom.  Already  rose 
gardens  have  been  started  and  shrubbery  planted, 
and  no  doubt  in  ten  or  fifteen  years  these  gardens 
will  begin  to  assume  that  beautiful  and  finished  shape 
which  Dutchmen  love.  How  they  make  anything 
grow  in  that  soil  passes  me;  but  behind  one  villa  we 
found  a  patch  of  potatoes  growing  and  apparently 
flourishing  right  in  the  sand! 

We  got  back  to  Haarlem  in  the  dusk  of  twilight, 
and  again  we  sat  at  the  Cafe  Brinkmann  and  watched 
the  busy  life  on  the  market  square.  It  was  Saturday 
evening,  and  the  scene  was  more  than  usually  ani- 
mated, the  shop-windows  brighter  than  ever,  the 
carillon  seemingly  more  beautiful.  How  clean  and 
healthy  and  nice-looking  these  Dutch  people  are. 
And  how  good-hearted.  You  may  bring  your  dog 
with  you  into  the  restaurant  —  if  he  is  well-behaved, 
as  all  Dutch  dogs  seem  to  be — and  the  waiter  will 


142  The  Spell  of  Holland 

bring  him  a  plate  of  meat,  so  that  he  may  eat  at  the 
same  time  his  master  does.  And  he  eats  like  a  gentle- 
man, with  no  unseemly  haste.  If  I  wasn't  an  Ameri- 
can, I  believe  I  should  like  to  be  a  Dutchman. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ROUND     ABOUT     HAARLEM 

BETWEEN  Haarlem  and  the  sea  lies  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  parts  of  Holland.  For  here  the  line  of 
dunes  which  keeps  out  the  North  Sea,  reaches  its 
greatest  height,  and  here,  too,  are  the  remains  of  the 
great  forest  which  in  years  gone  by  clothed  the  whole 
coast.  In  consequence,  it  is  here  that  the  wealthy 
Dutchman  has  chosen  to  build  his  country-house,  and  it 
is  here  that  he  and  his  family  spend  a  large  portion 
of  every  year.  For  the  Dutch  are  very  fond  of  the 
outdoors,  and  the  country-house  is  preferred  to  the 
town-house  as  long  as  the  weather  permits  of  wide- 
open  windows. 

These  country-places  are  not  "  estates,"  as  the  word 
is  understood  in  England  and  France,  and  is  coming 
to  be  understood  in  this  country  —  that  is  to  say, 
they  consist  of  only  an  acre  or  two,  but  that  little 
tract  of  land  is  made  as  beautiful  as  possible.  There 
is  the  house  of  red  brick,  with  its  steep  roof  and  tall 
windows,  carefully  placed  so  that  none  of  the  old 
trees  will  be  interfered  with ;  the  grounds  are  planted 
with  flowering  shrubs,  and  further  brightened  by 
beds  of  tulips  and  geraniums  and  begonias;  canals 
and  ponds  are  laid  out,  and  water-lilies  planted  in 

143 


144  The  Spell  of  Holland 

them;  a  pretty  little  summer-house  is  built  where 
the  family  may  take  its  meals  out-of-doors,  and  the 
passing  years  make  the  place  complete.  A  more 
attractive  one  would  be  hard  to  find  anywhere. 

These  are  the  older  villas,  the  summer-residences 
of  the  aristocracy.  The  newer  ones,  built  by  ordi- 
narily wealthy  men-of-affairs,  are  of  wood,  gayly- 
painted,  set  in  the  midst  of  a  flower-crammed  half- 
acre.  They,  also,  are  most  attractive;  for  the  Dutch 
do  these  things  better  than  we! 

It  was  to  see  these  villas,  new  and  old,  and  to 
explore  the  dunes  beyond  them  that  we  left  Haarlem 
that  Sunday  morning,  taking  the  electric  tram  to 
Bloemendaal,  itself  a  collection  of  country-houses, 
each  more  charming  than  the  other.  Just  beyond  the 
town,  the  wood  commences,  a  wood  of  mighty  elms 
and  beeches,  through  which  are  many  paths.  The 
main  road  leads  to  the  famous  old  inn,  the  Duin  en 
Daal,  back  of  which,  on  a  lofty  dune,  from  which  a 
large  Dutch  flag  was  flying,  is  a  lookout  whence  one 
may  see  Haarlem  with  the  Groote  Kerk  high  in  its 
midst,  Amsterdam  with  its  many  towers  and  great 
gas-tanks,  and,  farther  to  the  left,  the  clustered  wind- 
mills of  the  Zaanland. 

Turning  to  the  right,  just  before  the  hotel  is 
reached,  is  the  road  leading  to  Meerenberg  and  the 
ruins  of  the  castle  of  Brederode,  and  this  we  took. 
The  road  runs  on  through  the  wood,  with  the  dunes 
mounting  steeply  to  the  left,  past  villa  after  villa, 
each  with  its  garden,  and  sun-parlour  and  out-door 


Round  About  Haarlem  145 

dining-room,  and  each  with  its  windows  wide  open 
to  the  soft  yet  bracing  breeze.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  a  Dutchman  never  opens  the  windows  of  his 
town-house  and  never  closes  those  of  his  country  one, 
and  I  can  at  least  testify  to  the  truth  of  the  latter 
part  of  the  epigram.  In  the  country  he  certainly 
seems  to  have  a  passion  for  fresh  air.  All  of  the 
houses  had  their  brightly-painted  wooden  shutters 
swung  back  against  the  wall,  and  the  design  most 
common  was  a  green  border,  with  an  hour-glass  in 
red  from  top  to  bottom,  and  the  triangles  at  the  sides 
in  white.  This  is  the  favourite  design  all  over  Hol- 
land, and  I  think  it  is  intended  to  simulate  a  red  cur- 
tain tied  together  in  the  middle.  When  the  shutters 
are  closed,  the  figure  certainly  has  that  effect. 

A  mile  farther  brought  us  to  the  picturesque,  ivy- 
grown  brick  ruins  of  the  chateau,  once  the  strong- 
hold of  the  powerful  counts  of  Brederode.  If  you 
have  read  your  Motley,  you  will  remember  the  hard- 
drinking,  hard-swearing,  rash  and  yet  patriotic  noble- 
man of  that  name  who  so  helped  and  hindered  William 
of  Orange  in  the  first  stages  of  the  struggle  for  Dutch 
independence,  the  founder  of  the  "  Beggars,"  who 
were  to  strike  the  first  effective  blow  of  the  contest, 
and  you  will  approach  these  ruins  with  heightened 
interest.  It  is  evident  that  the  castle  was  an  exten- 
sive one,  and  the  ruins  are  both  imposing  and  beau- 
tiful. The  wide  moat  is  still  filled  writh  water,  gay 
with  lilies,  but  a  permanent  wooden  bridge  has  re- 
placed the  old  drawbridge,  and  only  one  of  the  towers 


146  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

can  boast  a  roof  —  a  modern  one  of  slate.  A  wind- 
ing and  worn  brick  stairway  leads  to  the  top  of  this 
tower,  whence  is  a  pleasant  view  of  the  woods  and 
the  dunes. 

A  portion  of  the  keep  has  fallen  down,  exposing 
the  narrow  stairway  leading  to  the  top.  It  is  of 
brick,  and  each  step  is  supported  by  a  little  brick 
arch  so  perfectly  built  that  it  has  survived  unshaken 
the  weight  of  centuries.  The  walls  are  very  massive, 
battlemented,  and  pierced  for  the  archers  or  mus- 
keteers. The  wide  Dutch  fireplace  survives  in  what 
was  once  the  banquetting-hall,  and  the  beautiful  stone 
flagging  of  the  floor  is  well  preserved. 

I  do  not  think  that  many  visitors  from  other  lands 
find  their  way  to  this  picturesque  spot.  For  one 
thing,  the  custodian  seemed  much  impressed  by  our 
arrival,  and  for  another  he  knew  not  a  single  word 
of  English.  It  is  a  pity,  for  the  place  is  well  worth 
visiting  in  itself,  and  the  country  round  about  it  is 
as  interesting  as  any  in  Holland. 

From  the  ruins,  we  turned  along  a  narrow  road 
shaded  by  tall  trees,  known  as  the  Berg  Weg,  or 
Mountain  Road,  and  were  soon  among  the  dunes  that 
Ruisdael  loved  to  paint.  Indeed,  it  was  from  this 
neighbourhood  that  he  drew  his  inspiration  almost 
wholly  in  the  early  days  of  his  career,  before  the 
demand  for  "  ideal  scenes,"  waterfalls  and  old  mills 
and  such  things,  corrupted  his  brush. 

We  left  the  road,  presently,  and  struck  off  among 
the  dunes,  through  groves  of  dwarfed  and  twisted 


Round  About  Haarlem  147 

pines,  with  the  needles  thick  underfoot,  filling  the  air 
with  their  delicious  odour;  across  the  dry  and  brittle 
moss,  through  the  furze  and  sand-grass,  starting  a 
great  rabbit  now  and  then,  as  brown  as  the  ground 
it  scurried  over.  Here  and  there,  across  the  face  of 
the  dunes,  a  streak  of  vivid  yellow  marked  a  sand- 
slip,  but  the  prevailing  tones  were  of  dark  green  and 
dark  brown,  deeply  melancholy.  Wild  roses  were 
thick  underfoot,  and  green  and  yellow  moss,  and 
pretty  little  blue  and  yellow  flowers,  and  thyme  and 
eglantine,  dwarfed  to  mere  miniatures  by  the  poverty 
of  the  soil  in  which  their  lot  was  cast.  It  was  inter- 
esting to  note  how  their  size  increased  in  the  damp 
hollows  and  diminished  on  the  dry  ridges.  The 
yellow  broom  seemed  to  be  the  only  plant  indifferent 
to  wind  and  drought,  and  its  feathery  plumes  waved 
to  us  from  every  side,  while  its  long  roots  pushed 
far  out  in  all  directions  in  search  of  sustenance.  The 
growth  of  the  broom  is  encouraged  in  every  way, 
because  its  vigorous  roots  help  to  bind  the  sand. 

It  was  a  windy  day,  with  gray  clouds  scudding 
across  the  sky  and  a  dash  of  rain  now  and  then  — 
just  the  weather  to  fit  the  scene.  I  wish  I  could 
describe  it.  The  dunes  are  not  mere  mounds  of  sand, 
but  hills  rising  sometimes  to  a  height  of  two  hundred 
feet,  and  extending  inland  three  or  four  miles.  And 
since  they  were  formed  by  wind  and  not  by  water,  the 
effect  at  first  is  most  bewildering.  For  there  are  no 
ordered  valleys  and  continuous  ridges  as  in  water- 
formed  hills,  but  peaks  and  hollows  without  system  or 


148  The  Spell  of  Holland 

connection.  It  is  not  possible  to  follow  either  a  ridge 
or  a  valley,  but  one  is  continually  either  mounting  or 
descending. 

We  walked  for  an  hour  or  more  amid  this  wild 
and  desolate  waste,  coming  upon  an  artist  under  his 
white  umbrella  in  a  sheltered  corner,  and  from  the 
tops  of  the  higher  dunes  catching  glimpses  of  the  gray 
sea  to  the  west  or  of  the  plains,  with  their  canals 
and  windmills,  to  the  east.  A  station  of  the  Water- 
staat  reminded  us  that  even  here  vigilance  was  neces- 
sary to  guard  against  the  encroachments  of  the  sea  — 
and  perhaps  even  more  to  keep  these  shifting  sands 
from  rolling  inland  over  the  fertile  country. 

The  wind  presently  drove  the  rain  before  it,  and 
the  sun  shone  from  a  sky  of  soft  blue,  with  great 
banks  of  white  clouds  piled  across  it.  We  made  our 
way  back  to  the  road  reluctantly,  for  there  is  a  fas- 
cination about  these  dunes  —  the  sort  of  fascination 
that  makes  one  long  to  spend  days  and  nights  dream- 
ing among  them. 

We  followed  the  road  through  a  wood,  and  past 
the  dearest  of  old  Dutch  farmsteads,  lying  close  to 
the  ground  and  guarded  by  great  elms  and  by  a  mighty 
hay-rick,  full  to  bursting,  and  a  scarcely-less-mighty 
woodpile,  pregnant  with  promise  of  cheerful  winter 
evenings.  Around  it  stretched  the  sand,  but  in  that 
sand  vegetables  of  all  kinds  were  planted,  and  —  I 
know7  not  by  what  miracle  of  culture  —  apparently 
thriving.  The  farmers  here  on  the  borders  of  these 
dunes  have  a  problem  to  confront  exactly  the  opposite 


Round  About  Haarlem  149 

of  that  which  confronts  all  the  other  farmers  of 
Holland.  Elsewhere  it  is  a  never-ceasing  battle 
against  water;  here  the  battle  is  just  as  bitter  against 
drouth.  The  Dutch  farmer  seems  to  be  able  to  win 
both. 

We  came  back,  at  last,  into  the  Meerenbergsche 
Weg,  with  its  gay  villas,  each  with  its  name  painted 
over  the  door.  Here  there  was  greater  diversity  than 
at  Zandvoort,  for  besides  women's  names,  we  noticed 
such  mottoes  as  "  Wei  Tevreden "  or  "  Well  Con- 
tent " ;  "  Buiten  Zorg  "  or  "  Without  Care  " ;  "  Anna's 
Lust,"  the  latter  word  meaning  pleasure  or  delight; 
"  Groot  Genoeg"  or  "Large  Enough";  "  Mijn 
Rust  "  or  "  My  Repose  " ;  "  Neit  Zoo  Quaalijk  "  or 
"  Not  So  Bad,"  —  each  motto  being,  I  suppose,  a  sort 
of  formula  of  the  philosophy  of  the  owner  of  the 
place.  This  philosophy,  I  may  add,  seems  pretty  much 
of  a  piece,  for  the  mottoes  all  belong  to  the  same 
family,  and  occur  again  and  again  on  country-houses 
all  over  Holland. 

We  stopped  for  lunch  at  a  clean  little  inn  at  the 
crossroads,  and  then,  striking  into  a  pretty  foot-path, 
made  our  way  back  through  the  woods,  and  so  to 
the  tram  for  Haarlem. 

Haarlem  improves  with  acquaintance,  and  one  is  al- 
ways discovering  new  points  of  interest.  That  Sunday 
evening,  the  orphans  were  especially  in  evidence, 
strolling  about  the  streets.  We  had  first  become 
aware  of  the  orphans  at  Leiden,  where,  having  noticed 


150  The  Spell  of  Holland 

among  the  crowd,  certain  bright-faced  girls  of  six- 
teen or  seventeen  in  white  caps  and  neat  black  gowns, 
we  had  asked  if  they  were  nurses,  and  had  been  told 
that  they  were  orphans.  We  did  not  fully  understand, 
then,  and  let  the  matter  pass  in  the  hurry  of  the 
moment,  but  when  we  got  to  Haarlem,  and  saw  boys 
and  girls  going  along  the  street  in  costumes  one  sleeve 
of  which  was  blue  and  the  other  red,  the  thing  de- 
manded investigation. 

It  then  developed  that  these  orphanages  exist  all 
over  Holland,  every  town  of  importance  having  one 
or  more.  They  are  privately  supported,  and  as  most 
of  them  have  been  in  existence  since  the  middle  ages, 
they  are  usually  well-endowed.  Some  of  them  are 
sectarian,  others  are  maintained  by  various  societies, 
and  still  others  are  open  only  to  the  orphans  of  a 
particular  locality;  but  it  is  considered  rather  an 
honour  to  be  admitted  to  them,  and  the  children  so 
admitted  are  carefully  educated,  the  girls  to  be  good 
housewives,  the  boys  to  be  useful  men. 

The  orphanage  at  Haarlem  is  a  large  one,  and  its 
peculiar  costume  is  very  ancient.  That  of  the  boys 
is  a  suit  all  black,  except  that  the  left  sleeve  of  the 
coat  is  a  bright  red,  and  the  right  sleeve  a  bright 
blue;  but  the  costume  of  the  girls  is  very  fetching, 
their  white  caps  setting  off  their  rosy  and  healthy 
faces,  and  their  parti-coloured  sleeves  being  elbow- 
length,  with  snowy  undersleeves  extending  to  the 
wrists.  As  one  sees  them  pass,  so  pretty  and  so 
happy,  with  eyes  so  blue  and  innocent  and  lips  so 


Round  About  Haarlem  151 

red  and  inviting,  one  cannot  but  marvel  that  they 
have  not  been  appropriated  long  since.  I  can  well 
believe  that  the  work  these  orphanages  do  in  educating 
these  children  is  a  most  important  and  beneficial  one. 

Nor  is  it  with  the  children  alone  that  the  Dutch 
concern  themselves.  All  over  the  land  are  institu- 
tions where  the  old  may  find  a  refuge  for  their  last 
years.  Haarlem  is  particularly  rich  in  these  hofjes, 
as  they  are  called,  but  every  town  has  them,  as  we 
have  seen  at  Leiden.  They  are  usually  pleasant  groups 
of  little  dwellings  arranged  around  a  beautifully-kept 
court,  each  with  its  own  front  door.  Sometimes  you 
pass  through  a  weather-beaten  arched  gateway  from 
the  turmoil  of  the  busy  street  into  the  quiet  of  one  of 
these  retreats,  whose  inmates  are  sitting  placidly  at 
their  doors,  knitting  and  gossiping,  —  awaiting,  with- 
out fear  I  hope,  the  last  summons. 

These  hofjes  are  not,  as  I  understand  it,  maintained 
by  the  state,  but  by  private  endowments,  and  the  re- 
strictions governing  them  vary  greatly.  Admission 
to  many  of  them  may  be  gained  by  the  payment  of 
a  certain  sum;  others  are  open  free  under  certain 
restrictions;  in  some  the  life  is  of  an  almost  con- 
ventual strictness;  in  others  it  differs  little  from  the 
life  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Of  the  value  of  these 
institutions  I  am  too  little  informed  to  hazard  an 
opinion;  but  the  nice,  clean  old  men  and  women  in 
them  certainly  seem  contented  and  happy,  and  I  can 
imagine  no  better  way  of  passing  the  years  after  one's 
usefulness  is  over. 


152  The  Spell  of  Holland 

The  people  of  Haarlem  seem  brighter  and  better- 
dressed  than  elsewhere,  but  this  may  be  only  the  re- 
flection of  their  pretty  town.  Looked  at  closely,  few 
of  the  women  are  beautiful  and  few  of  the  men 
handsome;  but  most  of  them  look  kind-hearted  and 
honest,  which  is,  perhaps,  of  more  importance.  On 
Sunday  afternoon,  they  turn  out  en  masse,  and  the 
main  streets  are  thronged  from  side  to  side  by  the 
parading  crowds  in  their  best  clothes,  the  men  gravely 
tipping  their  hats  to  each  other,  but  not  to  the  women, 
as  they  pass.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  flirtation,  and 
the  girls  seem  uncommonly  ready  to  smile  and  be 
talked  to  and  treated  to  beer  and  poffertjes.  The 
cafes  are  crowded,  and  the  result  is  apparent  as  eve- 
ning falls.  Filled  with  beer,  the  peasant  is  moved  to 
an  elephantine  gayety;  but  his  idea  of  a  good  time 
seems  to  be  limited  to  singing  raucously  up  and  down 
the  streets,  or  putting  his  arm  around  his  best  girl 
and  charging  along  the  pavements  with  her.  The 
police  evidently  do  not  consider  this  disorderly. 

In  the  evening,  we  strolled  out  to  the  beautiful 
forest  of  Haarlem  to  the  south  of  the  town,  with 
its  fine  avenues  of  limes  and  beeches  —  such  a  pleas- 
ure-ground as  no  American  town  I  know  possesses. 
The  clear  light  of  the  evening  filtered  through  the 
leaves,  and  the  incomparable  odour  of  the  woods  filled 
our  nostrils.  Near  the  entrance,  a  band  was  playing, 
softened  by  the  distance,  and  the  moment  was  one 
to  soothe  and  uplift  the  spirit. 

But  the  lights  and  bustle  of  the  streets  lured  us 


Round  About  Haarlem  153 

back,  at  last.  Never  were  there  such  delicatessen  and 
sweet-meat  displays  as  those  in  the  Haarlem  shop- 
windows  !  Outdoor  bakeries  of  poffertjes  and  wafelen 
are  on  every  hand,  and  even  more  frequent  are  the 
hand-carts  heaped  high  with  fried  eels.  The  eels 
are  carefully  assorted  as  to  size,  varying  from  mere 
worms  to  monsters  a  yard  long,  and  they  are  sold 
by  weight.  They  are  very  dark,  as  though  they  had 
been  smoked,  and  are  anything  but  appetizing  in 
appearance,  and  still  less  so  as  to  smell.  We  specu- 
lated as  to  whether  the  proper  way  to  eat  an  eel  was 
the  same  at  Haarlem  as  at  Leiden,  and  whether  one 
should  begin  at  the  head  or  the  tail.  Observation 
showed  that  the  flesh  must  be  gnawed  off  sideways, 
from  left  to  right. 

Lovers  of  old  Dutch  silver,  brass  and  pewter  —  tin, 
they  call  it  —  will  find  many  attractive  shops  at 
Haarlem,  and  the  prices  surprisingly  reasonable.  Most 
attractive  of  all,  I  think,  is  a  little  shop  huddling  under 
the  great  buttresses  of  the  Groote  Kerk.  Never  did 
brass  and  pewter  shine  as  they  shine  here,  and  nearly 
as  bright  is  the  face  of  the  pretty  woman  who  owns 
it,  Madame  van  Veldhuijsen,  to  whom  my  compli- 
ments and  best  wishes.  The  neighbourhood  of  Haar- 
lem is  rich  in  this  old  ware,  and  I  should  hate  to  tell 
how  many  pieces  Betty  purchased! 


CHAPTER    XII 


A   STROLL   ON    THE   BEACH 

WE  left  Haarlem  next  morning  for  a  day  along 
the  North  Sea,  running  down  to  Leiden  through  the 
fields  of  horticulturists,  looking  for  the  most  part  dead 
and  sere,  now  that  the  tulips  were  done  blooming 
and  the  bulbs  in  the  ground  waiting  to  be  dug.  April 
is  the  time  to  see  these  fields  in  their  full  glory.  A 
few  fields  of  Japanese  iris  were  still  in  bloom,  but 
even  they  were  beginning  to  fade.  The  sandy  soil 
about  Haarlem  is  peculiarly  suited  to  the  culture  of 
these  bulbs,  and  the  business  has  grown  to  great  pro- 
portions. But  it  is  a  steady  and  humdrum  business 
now,  quite  without  that  element  of  romance  which 
attached  to  it  in  the  days  when  Cornelis  van  Baerle 
grew  his  Black  Tulip,  and,  here  in  the  Haarlem  mar- 
ket-place, won,  at  the  same  time,  the  prize  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  florins  and  the  hand  of  the  woman  he 
loved ! 

At  Leiden  we  walked  up  to  the  Korte  Galgewater, 
stopping  on  the  way  to  admire  a  tall  windmill,  beauti- 
fully placed  behind  a  screen  of  trees,  and  reflected  in 
a  tiny  river  at  its  foot.  At  the  wharf,  we  found 
waiting  the  little  black,  narrow  steamboat  for  Katwijk 
aan  Zee.  The  skipper,  a  short  and  stout  little  Dutch- 

154 


A  Stroll  on  the  Beach  155 

man,  and  the  crew,  a  lean  and  scraggy  one,  received 
us  with  great  empressement. 

Having  assisted  us  to  the  deck,  the  crew  rang  the 
landing-bell  and  cast  loose,  and  the  captain  punted  the 
boat  around  until  she  was  headed  the  right  way,  then 
the  crew  dived  into  the  engine-room,  the  engine  began 
to  beat,  the  screw  to  turn,  and  we  were  off.  We  were 
the  only  passengers.  The  freight  on  board  could  have 
been  carried  in  a  wheelbarrow,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
.see  how  the  boat  paid  expenses  —  but  the  same  mys- 
tery attaches  to  almost  all  these  little  boats. 

We  came  to  a  railroad  bridge,  presently,  and  tied 
up  alongside  until  a  train  passed.  Then  the  bridge- 
men  laboriously  unbolted  the  fish-plates,  swung  the 
bridge  open  for  us  to  pass,  and  we  puffed  through 
without  paying  toll,  and  headed  down  the  Rhine. 
The  Rhine  —  think  of  it !  The  same  river  which  had 
its  origin  nine  hundred  miles  away  in  Switzerland  — 
though  I  doubt  if  any  of  this  water  came  so  far.  The 
Dutch  play  hob  with  the  Rhine  as  soon  as  they  get 
their  hands  on  it.  They  divide  it  up  into  three  lesser 
streams,  which  they  name  the  Waal,  the  Ijssel  and 
the  Lek.  The  Rhine,  as  such,  drops  out  of  the  world 
entirely,  only  to  bob  up  again  like  a  ghost  here  at 
Leiden.  A  very  attenuated  ghost  it  is  —  scarcely  a 
shadow  of  the  great  river  which  rolled  down  from 
Germany. 

It  was  Monday,  and  therefore  wash-day,  and  the 
women  all  along  the  banks  were  kneeling  in  their 
washing-boxes  and  swishing  clothes  around  in  the 


156  The  Spell  of  Holland 

stream.  These  washing-boxes  are  little  water-tight 
compartments  sunk  level  with  the  water  at  the  back 
doors  of  the  houses  along  the  river-edge,  and  the 
women  knelt  in  them  and  rubbed  a  little  soap  on  the 
garment  they  were  washing,  and  pounded  it  on  the 
platform  in  front  of  them,  and  then  swashed  it  around 
in  the  cold  water,  and  wrung  it  out  and  laid  it  on 
the  grass  to  dry.  It  looked  back-breaking  and  clammy 
work,  but  it  seems  effective  enough,  for  Dutch  linen 
is  the  whitest  in  the  world.  There  was  a  time,  before 
artificial  bleaching  was  discovered,  when  linen  from 
all  over  the  world  was  sent  here  to  be  whitened,  the 
damp  atmosphere  and  the  water  of  the  canals,  espe- 
cially at  Haarlem,  being  supposed  to  possess  some 
mysteriously  effective  quality ;  and  so  "  Hollands  " 
came  to  be  the  generic  name  for  white  linen  —  a  name 
which  is  still  sometimes  used. 

Presently  we  saw  a  stork's  nest  on  top  of  a  high 
pole,  evidently  placed  there  especially  for  it,  with  the 
stork  standing  immobile  on  one  leg  disdainfully 
watching  the  scene  below.  There  were  two  young- 
sters in  the  nest,  and  by  the  way  they  were  craning 
their  necks  out  of  it,  they  seemed  much  more  inter- 
ested in  the  world  than  their  mother  was.  The  Dutch 
peasant  believes  that  no  woman  will  die  in  child-bed 
in  a  house  on  which  a  stork  has  built,  and  as  the  Dutch 
birthrate  is  high,  the  stork  is  as  sacred  in  Holland 
as  the  ibis  was  in  Egypt.  It  is  an  interesting  coin- 
cidence that  both  birds  belong  to  the  same  family. 

Katwijk-ann-den-Rijn  is  a  pretty  cluster  of  red- 


A  Stroll  on  the  Beach  157 

roofed  houses,  set  so  close  to^the  river  that  the  boat 
almost  grazes  them  as  it  chug-chugs  along.  Just 
beyond,  two  big  canals  enter  the  river,  which  broadens 
to  a  considerable  stream,  confined  between  high  banks, 
its  margin  gay  with  white  and  yellow  water-lilies. 
All  along,  in  the  fields  on  either  side,  were  men  and 
women  on  their  knees  digging  potatoes  with  little 
trowels.  And  at  last,  ahead  of  us,  we  saw  a  great 
five-arched  water-gate  —  one  of  the  eleven  which  hold 
back  the  waves  of  the  North  Sea  and  keep  Holland 
safe. 

This  great  engineering  work,  constructed  over  a 
hundred  years  ago  by  that  Conrad  whose  tomb  we 
have  seen  in  the  church  at  Haarlem,  deserves  a  close 
inspection,  and  is  most  impressive.  Time  was  when 
the  Rhine  did  not  get  to  the  sea  at  all,  but  ended 
ignominiously  here  in  a  sandy  swamp,  a  constant 
menace  to  the  country.  The  Dutch  decided  to  change 
all  that;  high  banks  were  built  to  guard  the  river,  a 
way  was  cut  through  the  dunes,  and  a  series  of  sluices 
built  to  carry  the  water  into  the  sea.  During  high 
tide  the  gates  are  closed,  to  keep  out  the  water  of 
the  ocean,  which  rises  many  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  river.  At  low  tide,  the  gates  are  opened,  and  the 
banked-up  water  of  the  Rhine  rushes  forth  with  a 
force  which  sweeps  away  the  sand  which  the  waves 
of  the  sea  have  heaped  up  in  the  channel. 

Sometimes,  during  stormy  weather,  the  wind  piles 
up  the  waves  so  high  along  the  coast  that  the  gates 
cannot  be  opened  for  several  days;  and  then,  if  the 


158  The  Spell  of  Holland 

river  happens  to  be  also  in  flood,  the  low  country 
along  it  is  in  great  danger  from  the  accumulated  water. 
One  look  at  those  mighty  gates  is,  however,  enough 
to  show  that  the  sea  will  never  break  through  them. 
The  dyke  stretching  away  on  either  side  is  also  very 
massive,  of  solid  masonry  which  nothing  but  an 
earthquake  could  displace.  It  stands  defiantly  holding 
back  the  sea,  keeping  watch  and  ward  over  the  land, 
which  sleeps  in  peace  behind  it,  knowing  that  it  is 
strong  and  trustworthy. 

It  was  noon  when'  we  reached  Katwijk,  and  as  we 
made  our  way  toward  the  sea- front  along  the  crooked 
streets,  we  passed  a  school  which  had  just  been  dis- 
missed, and  the  clatter  of  the  wooden  shoes  on  the 
cobbled  pavement  was  something  terrific.  Men  and 
women  were  returning  from  work  in  the  fields  for 
the  noon  meal  —  strong  and  straight,  most  of  them, 
and  with  honesty's  fearless  eyes. 

Like  most  other  Dutch  seaside  resorts,  Katwijk  is 
divided  sharply  into  two  parts  —  the  old  part,  con- 
sisting of  the  huddled  houses  of  the  fishermen,  and 
the  new  part,  consisting  of  the  villas  and  hotels  for 
the  summer  visitors.  And,  as  always,  the  fishermen's 
houses  crouch  behind  the  dunes,  while  the  hotels  stare 
insolently  down  upon  the  sea  from  above  them.  The 
old  quarter  is  of  more  relative  importance  here  than 
at  the  larger  resorts,  for  the  town  still  has  seventy 
smacks  engaged  in  the  herring  fishery. 

But  we  had  come  to  Katwijk  only  as  a  starting- 
point  for  one  of  the  most  characteristic  beach-walks 


THE    MOUTH    OF    THE    RHINE,    KATWIJK. 


SHELL-GATHERER    ON    THE    BEACH,    KATWIJK. 


A  Stroll  on  the  Beach  159 

6n  the  Dutch  coast,  and  as  soon  as  we  had  glanced 
at  the  town,  we  turned  our  backs  upon  it,  and,  making 
our  way  over  the  Rhine  locks,  headed  away  toward 
Noordwijk,  three  miles  distant.  The  tide  was  out 
and  just  at  the  turn,  so  that  there  was  a  beautiful 
stretch  of  smooth,  hard  sand  —  better  walking  by  far 
than  the  cobbles  of  the  towns.  There  was  a  strong 
wind  at  our  backs,  with  dark  clouds  scudding  across 
the  sky,  and  a  spatter  of  rain  now  and  then,  and  the 
sea  was  gray  and  angry,  with  a  booming  surf. 

Waist-deep  in  this  surf,  a  number  of  men  were 
working  with  little  hand-nets,  which  they  would  dip 
into  the  waves,  as  they  rolled  in,  and  then  would 
empty  into  a  high,  two-wheeled  cart,  which  had  been 
driven  as  near  them  as  the  waves  would  permit.  We 
could  see  that  the  nets  were  heavy  with  something, 
and  we  were  puzzled  for  a  long  time  as  to  what  it 
was  the  men  were  catching;  but  finally  one  of  the 
carts  came  driving  past  us  along  the  beach  with  one 
of  the  men  in  attendance,  and  we  saw  that  it  was 
heaped  high  with  shells.  The  waves  bring  these  shells 
in  in  great  quantities,  and  it  is  quite  in  line  with  the 
Dutchman's  idea  of  the  fitness  of  things  that  the 
ocean  should  be  made  to  provide  its  own  manacles. 
For  these  shells  are  calcined  into  lime  in  the  kilns  at 
Katwijk,  and  this  lime  furnishes  the  mortar  which 
holds  the  dykes  in  the  neighbourhood  together.  This 
shell-gathering  seems  to  be  the  principal  pursuit  of 
the  Katwijk  fishermen  outside  the  herring  season,  and 
the  beach  was  lined  with  carts  almost  as  far  as 


160  The  Spell  of  Holland 

Noordwijk.  The  shell-gatherers  were  tall,  sturdy  fel- 
lows, as  hard  as  iron,  and  did  not  seem  to  feel  the 
exposure  consequent  upon  standing  in  the  cold  water 
for  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time. 

Half-way  down  the  beach,  we  passed  the  blackened 
remnants  of  a  wreck,  buried  in  the  sand,  with  a  flock 
of  gulls  and  some  darker  birds  whirling  about  it. 
The  beach  widened  as  we  neared  Noordwijk,  which 
is  a  resort  of  more  importance  than  its  sister  to  the 
south,  for  the  beach  is  covered  with  hooded  chairs, 
as  at  Scheveningen,  and  the  villas  and  hotels  topping 
the  dunes  are  quite  elaborate. 

We  returned  to  Leiden  by  the  crookedest  of  tram- 
lines across  a  country  which  must  be  one  of  the 
garden-spots  of  Holland.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
see  were  broad  stretches  of  gardens,  with  men  and 
women  on  their  knees  digging  potatoes  and  tulip- 
bulbs,  picking  strawberries,  or  preparing  the  land  just 
vacated  by  one  crop  for  another,  for  no  season  of 
the  year  is  wasted  here  in  Holland,  and  the  ground 
is  seldom  empty. 

This  being  Monday  night,  the  town  orchestra  of 
Haarlem,  about  forty  strong,  was  assembled  in  a  tem- 
porary grand-stand  in  the  middle  of  the  Groote  Markt, 
as  we  came  out  from  dinner  at  the  Brinkmann.  We 
did  not  linger,  but  rode  out  to  take  another  look  at 
the  beautiful  forest  of  Haarlem.  The  trees  are  very 
tall  and  straight,  truly  like  the  pillars  of  a  cathedral, 
especially  a  Dutch  cathedral,  where  the  pillars  are 


A  Stroll  on  the  Beach  161 

always  slim  and  round.  Luckily  it  has  not  occurred 
to  the  Dutch  to  whitewash  the  wooden  ones  as  they 
do  those  of  brick,  and  a  stroll  along  these  green- 
vaulted  aisles,  scented  as  no  incense  ever  scented  stone- 
vaulted  ones,  is  truly  a  balm  to  the  spirit. 

We  had  a  last  look  through  Haarlem  next  morning, 
and  a  visit  to  Madame  van  Veldhuijsen  under  the 
shadow  of  the  cathedral,  lured  back  by  some  old 
pewter  without  which  we  could  not  summon  up  resolu- 
tion to  leave  the  town.  We  saw,  too,  the  first  funeral 
we  had  seen  in  the  country,  proceeding  solemnly  to 
the  obscure  burying-ground  somewhere  in  the  out- 
skirts. Two  men  marched  in  front  in  cocked  hats, 
which  they  wore  fore  and  aft,  so  to  speak,  while  the 
driver  of  the  hearse  wore  his  crosswise.  There  may 
be  some  etiquette  in  this  which  the  stranger  in  the 
country  does  not  understand;  or  perhaps  it  is  only 
a  matter  of  personal  preference.  The  hearse  was  very 
ornate,  but  without  glass,  so  that  the  draped  coffin 
within  was  fully  visible.  Behind  came  the  pall-bearers 
on  foot,  each  in  a  braided  frock-coat  and  rusty  top- 
hat,  which  evidently  had  seen  service  at  many  former 
ceremonies.  There  were  eight  pall-bearers  in  all,  and 
after  them  came  the  mourners  in  two  carriages  with 
the  curtains  tightly  drawn. 

Time  was  when  this  procession  would  have  been 
headed  by  a  huilebalk,  with  wide-brimmed  hat  and 
long-tailed  coat,  a  black-bordered  handkerchief  in  his 
hand,  and  real  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks;  but 
I  fear  the  huilebalk  has  vanished  from  this  earth, 


162  The  Spell  of  Holland 

together  with  knights-errant  and  magicians  and  prin- 
cesses in  distress,  and  many  other  charming  and  in- 
teresting things! 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  wonderful  shop- 
windows  of  the  Haarlem  pastry-cooks;  and  those  of 
the  toy-shops  are  scarcely  less  wonderful.  Dutch 
children  seem  to  be  educated  in  household  ways  by 
means  of  elaborate  toys,  and  it  is  possible  in  these 
shops  to  buy  all  sorts  of  household  things  in  minia- 
ture, even  to  a  residence  completely  furnished.  These, 
I  imagine,  are  for  the  girls,  as  these  houses  always 
have  a  nursery  in  them,  with  the  baby  in  its  cradle; 
while  for  the  boys  are  devised  startling  mechanical 
contrivances  of  all  degrees  of  ingenuity.  The  Dutch 
are  great  lovers  of  such  contrivances.  Many  of  their 
clock-towers  are  equipped  with  mechanical  figures, 
which  perform  when  the  hour  strikes;  elaborate 
automata  are  exhibited  at  all  the  festivals;  sleight- 
of-hand  and  unusual  dexterity  of  any  kind  are  much 
admired;  and  acrobats  form  a  part  of  every  enter- 
tainment. That  fellow  who  practised  with  a  handful 
of  peas  until  he  could  impale  them  all  upon  pin-points 
at  a  single  throw  would  have  been  well  rewarded 
in  Holland! 

There  is  a  story  that,  when  Peter  the  Great  was 
ready  to  leave  Amsterdam,  he  desired  to  take  back 
to  Russia  a  memento  of  his  stay  in  Holland,  and  com- 
missioned a  Dutch  nobleman  to  have  made  for  him  a 
miniature  replica  of  a  Dutch  mansion.  That  commis- 
sion was  undertaken  in  the  gravest  spirit.  Expert  cab- 


A  Stroll  on  the  Beach  163 

inet-makers  made  the  furniture;  expert  jewellers  the 
plate;  the  carpets  were  woven  at  Utrecht,  the  lace  at 
Bruges,  the  linen  at  Ghent;  tiny  books,  readable  only 
with  a  microscope,  were  engraved  for  the  shelves  of  the 
library;  miniature-painters  executed  the  pictures  for 
the  walls.  At  last  the  house  was  done.  But  twenty- 
five  years  had  elapsed ;  a  hundred  thousand  florins  had 
been  expended;  and  Peter,  who  had  other  things  to 
think  about,  had  long  since  forgotten  the  commission. 
So  this -most  elaborate  and  costly  of  all  toys  found 
a  resting-place  in  a  museum  at  The  Hague  —  a  monu- 
ment to  Dutch  patience  and  ingenuity. 

The  Dutchman,  too,  likes  to  see  what  is  passing 
in  the  street.  The  open  fronts  of  Dutch  cafes  are 
a  proof  of  this,  but  there  is  another,  even  more 
striking.  For,  to  the  front  of  nearly  every  private 
house,  is  affixed  a  double  mirror  set  at  such  an  angle 
that  a  person  sitting  inside  the  window  can  see  up 
and  down  the  street.  Or  perhaps  it  is  the  women 
who  demand  this  diversion.  It  is  somewhat  startling, 
as  you  are  walking  along  the  pavement,  to  find  your- 
self gazing  suddenly  into  a  pair  of  tranquil  eyes,  and 
it  is  a  moment  before  you  realize  that  you  are  looking 
at  some  lady  seated  at  her  work  inside  the  house, 
who,  of  course,  is  also  looking  at  you! 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    TOWN    ON    THE    AMSTEL 

HAARLEM  grows  on  one,  the  longer  one  remains 
there,  and  we  looked  back  upon  it  with  regret  from 
the  windows  of  the  train  which  bore  us  away  to 
Amsterdam,  only  a  few  miles  distant.  Most  towns 
in  Holland  are  "  only  a  few  miles  distant,"  and  rail- 
way journeys  are  soon  accomplished.  By  rail  from 
Haarlem  to  Amsterdam  takes  about  fifteen  minutes, 
and  before  the  Groote  Kerk  of  Haarlem  was  out  of 
sight  behind,  the  clustered  towers  of  Amsterdam 
loomed  ahead.  Half  an  hour  later,  we  had  found  a 
quiet  inn,  engaged  a  gorgeous  apartment  on  the  first 
floor  at  a  price  ridiculously  small,  even  though  it  did 
look  out  upon  the  busy  Damrak,  with  a  little  vine- 
embowered  balcony  in  front,  where  one  might  sit 
and  watch  the  crowded  life  in  the  street  below. 

Amsterdam  is  the  most  characteristic  of  the  three 
great  cities  of  Holland.  Its  broad,  concentric  canals, 
mirroring  the  narrow,  high-gabled  houses  leaning 
above  them,  and  thronged  with  boats  from  every  por- 
tion of  the  country,  give  the  town  a  Dutch  air  not 
to  be  mistaken;  and,  especially  in  the  older  parts,  it 
is  indescribably  picturesque.  I  can  imagine  nothing 
more  so  than  the  maze  of  narrow  and  crooked  streets 

164 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  165 

about  the  Oude  Kerk,  which  look  to-day  much  as 
they  must  have  looked  three  hundred  years  ago. 

The  Dutch  atmosphere  is  further  accented  by  the 
presence  of  many  costumes  in  the  streets,  for  Marken 
and  Volendam  and  Broek  are  not  far  away,  and  their 
women  are  especially  esteemed,  here  at  Amsterdam, 
as  nursemaids;  added  to  which  is  the  queerest  cos- 
tume of  all  —  that  of  the  local  orphans.  At  Haarlem 
they  were  conspicuous  enough  with  one  sleeve  red 
and  the  other  blue;  here  they  fairly  take  one's  breath 
away,  one-half  black  and  one-half  red. 

I  mean  that  literally,  astonishing  as  it  may  sound. 
If  the  orphan  is  a  boy,  the  left  half  of  his  coat  is 
of  bright  red  cloth  and  the  right  half  of  black;  if 
a  girl,  both  skirt  and  bodice  are  divided  longitudinally 
in  the  same  manner.  Betty  said  it  reminded  her  of 
the  "  Boo-hoo,  ha-ha "  chorus  in  "  The  Three 
Twins."  Why  the  boys'  trousers  are  not  divided  in 
colour  I  don't  know,  but  they  are  of  decent  black. 
Perhaps  the  moralists  thought  it  dangerous  to  encase 
one  leg  in  red. 

We  were  surprised  to  see  male  orphans  swaggering 
about  the  streets  smoking  or  promenading  with  their 
best  girls,  and  the  female  orphans,  or  "  Amster- 
damsche  burgerweismeisjes,"  as  they  are  called,  quite 
grown  up  and  much  interested  in  the  men.  But  it 
seems  that  orphans  stay  in  the  institution  until  they 
are  of  age,  after  which  they  are  expected  to  shift 
for  themselves.  The  boys  are  usually  apprenticed  to 
some  trade  and  the  girls  are  found  a  position  in  a 


166  The  Spell  of  Holland 

private  family.  They  are  much  sought  after,  because 
of  their  excellent  training. 

The  orphanage  at  Amsterdam  was  founded  early 
in  the  sixteenth  century  by  a  woman  named  Haasje 
Claas,  who  gave  seven  houses  in  the  Kalverstraat  for 
the  purpose.  I  do  not  know  whether  Haasje  pre- 
scribed the  costume,  but  it  dates  from  very  early  in 
the  institution's  history.  It  was  made  as  striking  as 
possible  in  order  that  it  might  be  instantly  recognized 
by  tavern-keepers,  who  are  forbidden  to  serve  orphans, 
and  also  by  railway  officials  and  drivers  of  all  public 
conveyances,  for  no  orphan  may  travel  away  from 
the  city  without  a  special  permit. 

Haasje  Claas's  gift  was  only  the  beginning  of  an 
endowment  which  is  now  very  large,  for  the  orphanage 
gets  many  legacies  every  year;  this  sort  of  benefac- 
tion being  very  popular  all  over  Holland.  To  be 
admitted  the  applicant  must  be  the  child  of  citizens 
of  Amsterdam  belonging  to  one  of  the  Protestant 
churches.  The  body  must  be  looked  after,  no  less 
than  the  mind,  in  all  these  orphanages,  for  I  never 
saw  healthier,  nicer-looking  boys  and  girls. 

My  pen  falters  at  the  task  of  trying  to  describe 
Amsterdam,  it  is  so  varied,  so  immense,  so  many- 
sided.  Its  greatest  attraction  —  the  greatest  in  all 
Holland  —  is  the  Rijks  Museum,  that  unparallelled 
treasure-house  of  Dutch  art,  for  which  I  shall  reserve 
a  separate  chapter.  Then  there  is  the  Municipal 
Museum,  rich  in  modern  Dutch  art;  the  royal  palace, 
the  two  great  churches,  the  teeming  Jewish  quarter, 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  167 

the  superb  Zoological  garden,  and  last  but  not  least, 
the  streets  —  above  all,  the  Kalverstraat,  that  narrow 
and  crooked  thoroughfare  packed  every  evening  from 
curb  to  curb  with  a  jocular,  good-natured  mob.  No- 
where else  have  I  seen  anything  quite  like  the  Kalver- 
straat. 

Amsterdam  is  built  like  a  horse-shoe,  or,  rather, 
like  a  lot  of  horse-shoes,  one  inside  the  other,  or  like 
a  great  amphitheatre  with  the  river  Ij  as  the  stage, 
and  the  streets  and  canals  the  rows  of  seats.  For 
they  run  in  semi-circles,  beginning  and  ending  in  the 
Ij,  and  in  the  centre  is  the  Dam,  where  the  routes 
of  all  tram-cars  also  begin  and  end. 

The  Dam  is  where  the  town  started,  for  this  is  the 
spot  which,  in  1204,  Gijsbrecht  II.  selected  as  the  site 
for  his  castle.  At  that  time,  the  Amstel  flowed  into 
the  Ij  here,  and  so  Gijsbrecht  had  to  build  a  dam 
to  turn  the  Amstel  aside,  and  from  this  dam  the  town 
took  its  name.  Gijsbrecht's  followers  built  their 
hovels  about  the  castle  walls,  and  so  a  town  began. 
Strangely  enough,  the  Dam  has  remained  the  hub 
about  which  the  city  has  grown  in  concentric  semi- 
circles. 

If  your  hotel  is  near  the  Dam,  you  will  have  no 
trouble  getting  anywhere;  and,  better  still,  you  will 
have  no  trouble  getting  back,  for  all  trams  stop  there 
sooner  or  later.  Also  you  will  become  acquainted 
with  the  most  persistent  guides  in  Europe  —  little 
men  in  rusty  black,  with  fat  umbrellas  under  their 
arms,  and  a  burnished  badge  on  their  hats,  who  beg, 


168  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

who  insist,  who  threaten  for  the  privilege  of  showing 
you  the  sights  —  not  for  their  sake,  be  it  understood, 
but  for  your  own,  in  order  that  they  may  accomplish 
for  you  a  vast  saving  of  time  and  money. 

I  have  wondered  in  vain  why  it  is  that  the  guides 
of  Amsterdam  are  more  leech-like  than  those  of  any 
other  town  —  far  surpassing  even  those  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  Louvre.  Perhaps  it  is  because  their 
case  is  such  a  desperate  one ;  for  no  one  with  a  tongue 
and  pair  of  eyes  in  his  head  has  the  slightest  need 
of  them.  Betty  and  I  passed  there  so  often,  that  at 
last  they  got  to  know  us,  and  even  touched  their  hats 
to  us  and  smiled  in  a  sort  of  sheepish  camaraderie, 
as  though  asking  us  not  to  give  them  away. 

Another  acquaintance  we  made  was  a  beggar,  whose 
beat  was  up  and  down  the  Damrak.  He  was  a  jovial- 
faced  fellow,  both  of  whose  legs  had  been  cut  off 
just  below  the  body  in  some  accident,  and  who  navi- 
gated up  and  down  the  pavement  on  a  stool,  which 
he  manipulated  with  wonderful  dexterity.  We  gave 
him  a  few  cents  the  first  time  we  saw  him,  and  after 
that  he  was  a  sworn  friend  of  ours,  always  stopping 
to  smile  and  lift  his  hat  as  we  passed  by,  and  never 
again  did  he  ask  us  for  money.  We  could  not  but 
like  him  for  the  light-hearted  way  in  which  he  faced 
the  world  which  had  used  him  so  terribly. 

The  Dam,  then,  is  the  natural  starting-point  for 
all  expeditions  about  Amsterdam,  and  some  of  the 
principal  attractions  are  near  by.  The  royal  palace 
shadows  it  to  the  west,  and  the  Nieuwe  Kerk  to  the 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  169 

north.  From  its  southern  side  starts  the  Kalver- 
straat,  and  a  little  distance  down  this  is  the  entrance 
to  the  municipal  orphanage,  while  the  next  side  street 
leads  to  the  Begijnenhof,  still  kept  by  the  sisters  of 
St.  Begga  much  as  it  was  five  hundred  years  ago. 

One  gets  into  the  palace  by  going  around  to  the 
back  and  ringing  at  a  door  there;  but  before  doing 
so,  one  should  know  a  few  facts  of  its  history  —  that 
it  was  built  as  a  town-hall  about  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century;  that  when,  in  1808,  Napoleon 
annexed  the  Netherlands  to  France  on  the  theory  that 
they  were  really  French  soil,  the  alluvium  of  French 
rivers,  and  made  Louis  Bonaparte  king  of  the  coun- 
try, Amsterdam  presented  this  building  to  the  new 
king  for  his  residence,  and  the  latter  did  his  best  to 
remodel  it  into  something  it  was  not  intended  for  — 
a  place  to  live  in.  So,  as  one  goes  through  the  build- 
ing, one  sees  these  two  purposes  constantly  at  war; 
for  Louis  Bonaparte's  disfigurements  and  partitions  of 
imitation  marble  have  been  allowed  to  stand.  The 
queen  lives  here  for  a  week  every  year,  as  Dutch  law 
requires,  and  it  may  be  that,  after  the  palace  at  The 
Hague,  she  would  not  feel  entirely  at  home  without 
some  imitation  marble  on  the  premises. 

There  is  nothing  imitation  about  the  magnificent 
marble  put  into  the  place  when  it  was  built,  and 
one  can  only  marvel  at  the  wealth  of  sculpture, 
admirably  done  by  Artus  Quellin  and  his  assistants. 
In  the  carving  about  the  doors  of  the  various  offices 
of  the  city  government,  Dutch  humour  had  full  play. 


170  The  Spell  of  Holland 

Above  the  door  of  the  secretary's  office  is  Discretion, 
with  a  finger  on  her  lips,  and  Fidelity,  typified  by  a 
dog  watching  his  dead  master.  About  the  door  of 
the  room  for  marriages  are  carved  billing  and  cooing 
doves.  The  old  court-room  is  decorated  by  reliefs 
showing  Wisdom,  as  exemplified  by  the  judgment  of 
Solomon,  with  a  soldier,  as  usual,  holding  the  baby 
up  by  one  leg  ready  to  slice  it  in  two;  Justice,  as 
exemplified  by  Brutus  ordering  his  sons  to  execution; 
and  a  number  of  other  scenes  of  the  same  sort.  The 
door  opening  into  the  office  for  bankrupts  has  a  relief 
showing  the  fall  of  Icarus,  who  tried  to  fly  too  high, 
and  an  ornamental  moulding  of  rats  and  mice  gnawing 
scattered  papers  and  empty  money-boxes. 

The  building  is  full  of  this  sort  of  sculptural  allu- 
sion, which  reaches  its  culmination  in  the  reception 
hall,  a  magnificent  and  imposing  apartment,  entirely 
lined  with  white  marble,  and  with  so  many  allegorical 
groups  in  it  that  it  takes  quite  a  while  to  puzzle  them 
out.  Our  conductor,  a  nice- faced  old  man,  was  deter- 
mined, however,  that  we  should  miss  nothing,  and 
especially  delighted  in  calling  our  attention  to  the 
deceptive  paintings  in  some  of  the  rooms  —  a  marble 
frieze  which  was  really  only  a  flat  surface,  a  row 
of  palings  before  which  one  stopped  but  which  were 
really  painted  on  the  wall  a  yard  away,  and  so  on. 
This  is  the  sort  of  childish  tomfoolery  of  which  the 
Dutch  seem  especially  fond 

We  had  quite  a  chat  with  the  custodian  afterwards 
when,  feeling  that  he  had  done  his  whole  duty  by 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  171 

us,  he  permitted  himself  to  relax.  He  was  very  proud 
of  Wilhelmina  and  of  the  Princess  Juliana  and  even 
condescendingly  friendly  toward  the  Prince  Consort. 
The  Dutch  people  generally  seem  to  be  fond  of  the 
queen  and  the  baby,  and  to  regard  the  prince  as  a 
necessary  evil.  Pictures  of  them  are  everywhere  — 
in  hotels,  in  public  buildings,  and  in  private  houses; 
and  an  immense  traffic  is  done  in  two  postcards,  one 
showing  the  queen  snuggling  the  baby's  face  up  to 
hers,  and  the  other  displaying  the  prince  sitting  stiffly 
upright  with  the  baby  on  his  knee.  It  is  a  difficult 
position,  and  he  looks  rather  foolish,  as  who  would 
not!  I  never  see  that  picture  without  thinking  of  an 
evening,  many  years  ago,  when  I  happened  into  a 
music-hall  in  lower  New  York.  It  was  one  of  those 
music-halls  where  the  audience  is  expected  to  join  in 
the  choruses  of  the  songs;  but  they  didn't  warm  up 
to  it  that  night  until  one  of  the  performers  sang  a 
sentimental  ditty  about  the  joys  of  home  and  wife 
and  children,  with  a  chorus  that  went  something  like 
this: 

He   never    cares    to   wander    from   his   own    fireside, 
He  never  cares  to  wander  or  to  roam ; 

With  his  baby  on  his  knee, 

He's  as  happy  as  can  be, 
For  there's  no  place  like  home  sweet  home. 

I  have  never  forgotten  those  words,  though  I  never 
heard  them  again,  nor  have  I  ever  forgotten  how  those 
tattered,  toil-stained,  poverty-bitten,  sin-scarred  men 
and  women  joined  in  singing  them.  It  was  just  the 


172  The  Spell  of  Holland 

sort  of  pathos  to  appeal  to  that  audience.  And  the 
picture  of  the  prince,  "  with  his  baby  on  his  knee," 
is  just  the  sort  to  appeal  to  the  sentimental  Dutch. 
I  doubt,  however,  if  the  rest  of  the  song  applies  to 
him.  He  certainly  doesn't  look  "  as  happy  as  can 
be." 

The  fondness  of  the  Dutch  for  Wilhelmina  is  due 
partly  to  the  fact  that  she  is  a  nice,  quiet,  unimagina- 
tive huisvroiiw,  and  so  typical  of  what  they  would 
have  all  their  women  be,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that 
she  and  her  baby  are  the  last  members  of  that  House 
of  Orange,  of  which  the  venerated  "  Father  William  " 
was  the  first  and  greatest.  The  Dutch  feel  that,  as 
long  as  that  line  endures,  the  country  owes  it  place 
and  honour.  But  most  Dutchmen  will  tell  you  that 
they  don't  really  need  a  queen;  they  could  get  along 
just  as  well,  and  somewhat  less  expensively,  without 
one;  but  so  long  as  the  queen  is  a  nice  girl  and  not 
too  extravagant,  and  especially  as  long  as  she  is  a 
descendant  of  "  Father  William,"  no  one  objects. 
Most  of  them,  I  think,  like  to  see  her  around,  and 
she  seldom  does  anything  to  annoy  them.  The  real 
governing,  of  course,  is  done  by  the  parliament,  an 
elective  body. 

It  is  in  the  Nieuwe  Kerk,  just  across  the  square 
from  the  palace,  that  the  Dutch  rulers  are  crowned 
and  take  the  oath  to  preserve  the  constitution  of  the 
country.  Wilhelmina  was  crowned  there  in  1898, 
and  the  event  is  commemorated  in  a  great  stained- 
glass  window,  decidedly  more  satisfying  than  such 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  173 

windows  usually  are.  When  we  went  over  to  the 
New  Church  for  the  first  time,  a  wedding  was  in 
progress.  We  tried  to  bribe  the  koster  to  admit  us, 
but  he  shook  his  head  almost  tearfully;  so  we  had 
to  idle  about  the  Dam  for  a  time.  Then  we  saw 
the  wedding-party  come  out  —  the  bride  very  tall  and 
statuesque  in  white  satin  and  a  long  veil;  the  groom 
hurried  and  embarrassed,  as  grooms  always  are;  and 
one  of  the  nicest-looking,  white-haired,  fresh-faced 
old  clergymen  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  When  we  entered, 
some  of  the  guests  were  still  sitting  around  in  the 
side  rooms  sipping  "  bride's  tears  "  wine  and  eating 
little  cakes,  and  in  the  church  itself  a  lot  of  men  were 
busy  clearing  away  the  chairs  and  the  wedding-carpet, 
which  had  been  laid  in  the  choir,  between  the  screen 
and  the  spot  where  the  altar  once  stood. 

The  koster  came  to  us  and  explained  that  he  had 
not  dared  admit  us  because  this  was  a  wedding  of 
the  better  class,  costing  twenty-five  gulden. 

"  If  you  were  a  Hollander,"  he  said,  in  broken 
English  which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  indicate,  "  you 
could  tell  that  by  the  carpet." 

"By  the  carpet?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  for  the  cheap  ceremony,  which  costs 
but  five  gulden,  we  use  only  a  single  strip;  for  ten 
gulden  we  use  two  strips;  but  for  twenty-five  gulden 
we  use  the  large  handsome  carpet  which  you  see 
yonder.  We  do  not  get  it  out  very  often,"  he  added, 
with  a  sigh. 

He  hurried  away,  after  that,  to  speed  his  parting 


174  The  Spell  of  Holland 

guests  and  to  gather  up  any  stray  tips,  leaving  us  to 
our  own  devices,  with  a  printed  description  of  the 
church,  which  he  had  given  us  when  we  bought  our 
tickets. 

Like  all  the  churches  of  Holland,  this  is  new  only 
by  comparison  with  the  old,  for  it  was  completed  in 
1414,  though  it  has  been  partially  destroyed  by  fire 
and  rebuilt  two  or  three  times  since  then.  The  prin- 
cipal show-piece  is  the  tomb  of  Admiral  de  Ruyter, 
with  the  hero  carved  in  marble,  his  head  resting  most 
uncomfortably  upon  a  cannon,  with  a  crowd  of 
allegorical  figures  grouped  about  him,  and  the  usual 
flamboyant  epitaph  engraved  above.  Various  other 
naval  heroes  are  also  buried  here  and  extravagantly 
commemorated  —  for  when  it  came  to  building  a 
monument  to  an  admiral  no  expense  was  spared. 

The  "  Oude  Kerk  "  is  not  far  away,  and  is  reached 
through  a  maze  of  tortuous  and  narrow  streets,  look- 
ing like  rifts  opened  by  an  earthquake.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  find  but  for  its  lofty  tower,  which  rises 
far  above  the  houses  as  a  guide.  It  is  really  old, 
dating  from  1300,  and  looks  it,  so  weather-beaten  and 
rain-worn  it  is,  so  gray  and  venerable.  It  is  more 
impressive  outside  than  in,  and  the  thing  that  I  re- 
member about  it  most  distinctly  is  the  beautiful  and 
cozy  little  pastor's  study,  overlooking  a  quiet  canal, 
in  which  we  had  to  wait  for  a  time.  In  a  study 
like  that,  one  ought  to  be  able  to  write  a  book  really 
worth  while! 

The  most  interesting  church  in  Amsterdam  is  that 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  175 

which  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  old  Begijnenhof, 
of  which  I  have  spoken.  You  turn  from  the  Kalver- 
straat  down  the  Begijnen-Steeg,  pass  under  an  old 
gateway,  and  you  are  in  a  court  surrounded  by  quaint 
old  buildings,  each  with  its  screen  of  trees.  The 
buildings  are  the  home  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Sisters 
of  St.  Begga,  and  the  Mother  Superior,  if  such  is  her 
proper  title,  will  detail  one  of  the  sisters  to  show 
you  some  of  the  rooms  —  little  white- washed  cham- 
bers, with  a  narrow  white  bed  guarded  by  a  crucifix, 
and  a  curtained  alcove  for  the  sister's  garments,  a 
chair  and  a  strip  of  carpet  —  and  that  is  all.  In  the 
refectory,  each  sister  has  her  little  cupboard  with  her 
dishes  in  it,  and  she  is  expected  to  keep  them  clean, 
as  well  as  attend  to  her  own  room.  They  all  looked 
very  tranquil  and  even  happy  —  at  least  with  a  sweet 
serenity  which  must  be  very  close  to  happiness.  And 
in  the  middle  of  the  court  is  a  tiny  white  church, 
like  a  toy-church,  almost;  which  was  set  apart,  in 
1607,  for  the  use  of  a  community  of  Scotch  weavers 
who  had  been  persuaded  to  settle  at  Amsterdam.  It 
has  remained  in  the  possession  of  the  Scotch  Presby- 
terians ever  since,  and  English  services  are  held  there 
every  Sunday. 

I  should  consider  seeing  the  palace  and  these  three 
churches  a  good  day's  work,  and  such  time  as  is  left 
may  be  well  employed  loitering  about  the  streets. 
For  there  is  a  perpetual  interest  about  Amsterdam's 
streets.  Each  seems  to  possess  a  character  of  its  own, 
varying  from  the  excitement  of  the  ever-crowded 


176  The  SpeU  of  Holland 

Kalverstraat  to  the  never-disturbed  placidity  of  the 
old  and  aristocratic  Heerengracht  not  far  away.  And 
the  canals  also  have  their  peculiar  character.  They 
are  not  so  crowded  as  the  ones  at  Rotterdam,  they 
seem  to  move  more  slowly,  and  those  who  do  busi- 
ness on  them  are  more  deliberate,  if  such  a  thing  is 
possible. 

Then  there  is  the  Jewish  quarter,  out  near  the 
Zoological  garden.  The  best  time  to  see  it  is  Friday 
evening,  when  it  is  a  real  ghetto  of  the  Middle  Ages; 
but  it  is  worth  seeing  at  any  time.  There  is  nothing 
like  it  anywhere  else  in  western  Europe,  for  Am- 
sterdam has  been  a  refuge  for  the  Jews  since  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  there  are  over  seventy-five 
thousand  of  them  there  now.  It  was  they  who 
brought  the  art  of  diamond-polishing  to  Amsterdam, 
and  they  still  very  largely  control  the  diamond  trade. 
It  is  something  of  a  shock  to  see  a  man  who  looks 
like  a  vagabond  take  a  little  package  from  his  pocket, 
open  it  on  a  table,  and  coolly  begin  to  turn  over  its 
sparkling  contents  with  the  nail  of  his  little  finger, 
which  is  left  long  like  a  tiny  scoop.  These  are  real 
Jews,  the  Jews  of  tradition,  unchanged  by  contact 
with  the  Gentile. 

But  for  that  matter,  even  on  the  Kalverstraat 
diamonds  are  handled  with  remarkable  freedom. 
You  enter  a  shop  and  ask  to  look  at  some,  and  the 
proprietor  reaches  under  the  counter  and  gets  out 
an  old  cigar-box,  and  lifts  the  lid  and  discloses  scores 
of  little  folded  papers.  He  opens  these,  one  after 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  177 

the  other,  and  in  each  of  them  is  a  pile  of  diamonds 
of  various  sizes.  The  cigar-box  seems  to  be  the 
accepted  receptacle  for  the  stock-in-trade  in  all  the 
Amsterdam  diamond  shops. 

For  dinner,  don't  stay  at  your  hotel,  however  in- 
viting the  menu.  I  never  see  travellers  returning 
dutifully  to  their  hotels  for  every  meal  but  I  mourn 
their  wasted  opportunities.  The  place  to  eat  is  in 
the  restaurants  where  the  natives  eat;  and  this  is 
especially  true  of  Amsterdam.  Go  to  a  cafe  on  the 
Rembrandt  Plein,  or  to  one  on  the  Kalverstraat,  or 
to  the  great  Cafe  Krasnapolsky,  and  take  two  or  three 
hours  to  the  meal.  It  will  probably  be  worth  it;  and 
the  life,  the  movement,  the  types  you  will  see  are 
most  interesting  and  diverting.  I  know  that  a  good 
many  travellers  seem  to  think  that  the  only  things 
worth  seeing  in  a  country  are  its  monuments;  but  to 
me,  the  monuments  —  and  by  these  I  mean  the 
churches  and  palaces  and  museums  —  are  of  an  in- 
terest quite  secondary  to  that  of  the  people  themselves. 

Aside  from  the  Cafe  Krasnapolsky,  with  its  mul- 
titudinous mirrors,  the  cafes  of  Amsterdam  reach 
their  culmination  around  the  Rembrandt  Plein.  In 
summer,  as  evening  advances,  the  chairs  and  tables 
from  these  cafes  overflow  the  sidewalk  into  the  street ; 
every  chair  is  taken,  and  the  waiters  fly  about  with 
a  frenzy  of  movement  which  threatens  every  instant 
to  bring  destruction  to  the  glasses  and  dishes  they 
carry,  and  which  yet  never  does.  There  is  a  hum 
of  talk,  dying  down  as  the  orchestra  plays  a  pia- 


178  The  Spell  of  Holland 

nissimo  passage  in  some  popular  favourite,  and  always 
leaping  into  a  burst  of  applause  when  the  music  stops, 
for  the  Dutch  are  fond  of  music.  Less- favoured 
passers-by  stop  to  look  at  the  scene;  children  hang 
about  its  outskirts,  their  fingers  in  their  watering 
mouths;  sometimes  a  beggar  tries  to  ply  his  trade 
until  a  waiter  appears  and  runs  him  off. 

The  people  are  of  all  sorts  —  solid  fathers  with 
their  wives  and  grown-up  children,  military  men  in 
full  uniform,  merchants  come  to  celebrate  the  con- 
clusion of  a  bargain  with  a  bottle  of  wine,  betrothed 
couples  who  do  nothing  but  smile  at  each  other  with- 
out knowing  what  they  are  eating,  men-about-town 
dining  the  Dutch  equivalent  of  the  chorus  girl  —  all 
this  goes  on  till  far  into  the  morning. 

Along  the  Kalverstraat,  there  are  two  or  three 
dining-places  of  severe  impeccability,  with  the  win- 
dows curtained  with  lace  and  all  their  appointments 
severe  and  expensive.  But  most  of  the  cafes  there 
are  of  a  cheaper  and  noisier  class,  with  a  table  d'hote 
dinner  early  in  the  evening,  and  after  that  liqueurs 
and  more  liqueurs,  over  which  the  visitors  sit  for  hours 
at  a  time.  The  seats  near  the  windows  are  the 
favoured  ones,  for  here  one  may  look  out  at  the 
crowded  street,  which  is  too  narrow  to  permit  chairs 
and  tables  on  the  sidewalks,  and  in  which,  after  a 
certain  hour  of  the  evening,  no  vehicles  are  permitted. 

It  was  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  who  made  the  famous 
jibe  that  his  neighbours  of  Amsterdam  dwelt  in  the 
tops  of  trees  like  rooks.  They  really  dwell  on  the 


The  Town  on  the  Amstel  179 

bottoms  of  them,  for  the  piles  upon  which  every 
house  is  built  are,  of  course,  driven  point  down.  I 
saw  them  making  the  foundation  for  such  a  house. 
A  shallow  hole  had  been  dug  in  the  black  and  oozy 
mud  which  underlies  the  city,  and  a  pump  was  trying 
unsuccessfully  to  keep  the  water  out  of  it,  while  a 
pile-driver  was  sinking  a  pile  a  foot  at  every  blow. 
The  piles  are  driven  close  together,  so  as  to  form  a 
solid  platform  upon  which  the  first  timbers  of  the 
house  are  laid,  and  the  action  of  the  water  is  said, 
in  time,  to  petrify  the  whole  mass. 

Upon  this  foundation,  the  brick  building  is  reared, 
the  front  and  rear  walls  never  being  built  until  the 
roof  is  on,  so  that  there  may  be  a  free  passage  of 
air  to  dry  the  side-walls,  which  support  the  roof's 
weight.  Then  the  other  walls  are  added  and  the 
interior  is  finished,  not  with  plaster,  but  with  canvas 
pasted  to  the  bricks  and  the  wall-paper  pasted  upon 
that,  so  that  there  is  always  an  appearance  of  dry- 
ness.  The  canvas  comes  loose  sometimes,  and  more 
than  once,  lying  in  bed,  I  have  seen  the  whole  wall 
apparently  bulge  towards  me,  as  a  current  of  air 
passed  behind  the  canvas.  But  the  dampness  doesn't 
trouble  the  Dutch,  who  move  in  the  moment  the  house 
is  ready.  Let  me  add,  that  it  never  troubled  us, 
either,  and  we  never  felt  the  slightest  ill-effects  from  it. 

The  foundation  of  piles  usually  settles  more  or 
less  unevenly,  and  the  building  is  tilted  forward  or 
back  at  a  dangerous-looking  angle.  But  the  Dutch 
know  how  to  mix  good  mortar,  and  it  never  falls. 


180  The  Spell  of  Holland 

The  most  expensive  part  of  an  Amsterdam  building 
is  its  foundation.  It  is  this,  of  course,  which  accounts 
for  the  fact  that  the  houses  are  so  narrow,  since  the 
foundation  must  be  made  as  small  as  possible,  and 
so  high,  since  the  foundation,  once  made,  must  be 
utilized  to  the  uttermost.  The  narrowness  of  the 
houses  means  steep  and  narrow  stairways,  up  which 
nothing  bulky  can  be  carried,  so  from  the  upper  gable 
of  every  house  a  crane  projects  by  means  of  which 
bulky  articles  are  lifted  through  the  windows.  To 
go  up  a  Dutch  stair  is  a  good  deal  like  going  up  a 
ladder;  in  descending,  one  always  has  an  impulse 
to  turn  around  and  come  down  backwards. 

The  Zoological  garden,  or  "  Artis,"  as  it  is  usually 
called,  is  worth  a  visit,  for  it  is  one  of  the  best  in 
Europe  and  very  attractively  laid  out.  Also  the 
diamond-polishing  works.  Diamonds  may  be  bought 
at  Amsterdam  at  a  price  about  one-third  less  than 
is  charged  here  in  America  (but  then  there  is  the 
duty!),  and  any  of  the  more  prominent  and  old- 
established  houses  is  quite  trustworthy.  Then  there 
is  the  harbour,  overlooked  by  the  squat  "  Weepers' 
Tower,"  where  the  friends  and  relatives  of  departing 
mariners  used  to  gather  to  watch  them  forth  upon 
their  desperate  enterprise;  and  a  great  many  other 
things  of  lesser  note,  which  you  will  find  in  your 
guide-book.  But  the  life  of  the  streets,  the  bustling, 
ever-changing  crowd,  is  for  me  the  great  attraction 
of  Amsterdam. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

A   GLANCE   AT   DUTCH    ART 

KING  Louis  BONAPARTE,  it  is  true,  disfigured 
Amsterdam's  town-hall  by  cutting  up  its  beautiful 
galleries  with  partitions  of  imitation  marble;  but,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  balance,  it  should  be  remembered 
that,  in  1808,  he  issued  a  royal  decree  establishing  a 
National  Collection  of  Dutch  art,  which  has  since 
grown  into  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  world.  He 
may  not  have  been  wholly  disinterested  in  this,  for 
the  decree  was  the  only  contribution  he  made  to  the 
collection,  and,  until  his  deposition,  he  kept  the  pic- 
tures thus  assembled  on  the  walls  of  his  own  palace; 
but  at  least  the  coalescing  word  was  his,  and  the 
collection  has  steadily  grown  in  interest  and  impor- 
tance from  that  day  to  this.  It  is  especially  rich  in 
the  work  of  the  Dutch  artists  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury —  so  rich,  indeed,  that  these  artists,  with  the 
exception  of  Frans  Hals,  can  be  studied  nowhere 
else. 

The  Dutch  art  of  the  seventeenth  century  is  an 
amazing  thing,  for  it  sprang  into  the  world  full- 
grown,  and,  at  the  end  of  the  century,  died  as  sud- 
denly. It  was,  apparently,  not  the  result  of  tradition 
or  training;  there  were  no  "  painter  families."  Rem- 

181 


182  The  Spell  of  Holland 

brandt's  father  was  a  miller,  Hals's  father  was  a 
merchant,  Jan  Steen's  father  was  a  brewer,  de  Hooch's 
father  was  a  butcher,  Gerard  Dou's  father  was  a 
glazier,  Ruisdael's  father  was  a  maker  of  picture- 
frames.  Where  did  these  men  get  their  technique? 
Where  did  they  get  their  insight?  Above  all,  how 
did  it  happen  that  they  were  all  born  within  the 
same  half-century?  Was  genius  in  the  air? 

We  ask  the  same  question  concerning  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,  and  are  at  the  same  loss  for  an  answer; 
and  this  great  era  of  Dutch  art  was  contemporary, 
in  its  beginning,  with  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Some 
mighty  force  was  plainly,  at  that  time,  astir  in  the 
world. 

But  Dutch  art  is  more  amazing  than  Elizabethan 
literature  because  the  latter  had  a  tradition  to  build 
on,  whereas  the  former  made  a  tradition  for  itself. 
Art,  up  to  that  time,  had  been  a  thing  of  saints  and 
madonnas;  the  Dutch  made  it  a  thing  of  e very-day 
life  —  an  art  for  the  home  and  fireside,  not  for  the 
church.  These  men  set  themselves  to  paint,  not 
miracles  and  scenes  of  martyrdom  and  mystery,  but 
the  people  and  the  things  they  saw  about  them  every 
day  —  honest  burghers,  sun-lit  interiors,  crowded  tap- 
rooms, the  kermess,  the  quack  doctor,  the  itinerant 
fiddler,  the  broad  Dutch  landscape,  the  cool  vistas  of 
Dutch  churches.  And  they  did  it  supremely  well. 

An  acquaintance  with  Dutch  life  is  necessary  to 
the  fullest  appreciation  of  Dutch  art;  above  all  an 
acceptance  of  the  theory,  which  is  as  true  of  literature 


A  Glance  at  Dutch  Art  183 

as  of  art,  that  no  subject  is  in  itself  unworthy,  that 
insight  and  truth  of  handling  dignify  any  theme. 
Without  this  understanding,  a  great  portion  of  Dutch 
art  must  seem  trivial,  if  not  absolutely  offensive; 
with  it,  a  visit  to  the  Rijks  is  a  thing  of  delight  — 
a  thing  to  be  repeated  many  times;  and  in  every 
gallery  the  Dutch  pictures  will  be  eagerly  sought  and 
lingered  over.  It  is  something  that  grows  upon  one, 
that  begins  with  indifference,  if  not  with  actual  dis- 
like, and  ends  in  the  liveliest  pleasure. 

A  great  picture,  like  a  great  novel,  is  a  thing  of 
insight  and  imagination.  But  we  have  come  pretty 
generally  to  agree  that  the  greatest  fiction  is  not  that 
which  is  a  mere  flight  of  fancy,  however  exalted,  but 
that  which  gives  a  significant  grouping  to  the  facts 
of  human  nature.  If  great  art  may  be  defined  in 
the  same  way,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  may, 
then  Dutch  art  is  the  greatest  in  the  world. 

The  ground  floor  at  the  Rijks  is  occupied  by  a  co.- 
lection  of  Dutch  industrial  art,  which  brings  before 
the  eye  the  interiors  of  the  houses  of  three  hundred 
years  ago;  a  splendid  collection,  full  of  beautiful 
things,  which  one  must,  by  all  means,  see.  The  paint- 
ings are  on  the  floor  above ;  and  one  makes  naturally, 
at  once,  for  the  little  addition  at  the  end  of  the  Gal- 
lery of  Honour  where  the  great  Rembrandts  are 
housed.  The  "  Night  Watch  "  used  to  hang  at  the 
end  of  this  gallery,  and,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  was 
more  at  home  there  than  in  the  little  room  where  it 
is  now,  however  scientifically  lighted.  In  its  present 


184  The  Spell  of  Holland 

position,  one  cannot  get  more  than  fifteen  feet  away 
from  it  —  not  far  enough  to  see  it  all  at  once.  It 
is  a  wonderful  picture  —  how  trite  it  seems  to  say 
so,  or  to  attempt  to  describe  it! 

Yet  for  me  it  has  not  the  fascination  of  the 
"  Syndics,"  which  hangs  in  another  little  room  ad- 
joining—  surely  the  apotheosis  of  portrait-painting, 
alive  if  ever  a  picture  was  alive  I  am  quite  unable 
to  explain  the  fascination  of  those  six  faces,  looking 
up  as  though  interrupted  by  the  visitor's  entrance. 
They  are  all  handsome  faces;  but  the  one  I  like  best 
is  the  second  from  the  right  end,  so  vigourous  and 
full  of  life  and  the  love  of  living. 

And  after  looking  at  the  "  Syndics,"  I  like  to  walk 
over  to  the  Van  de  Poll  room  to  see  again  that  other 
masterpiece  by  Rembrandt,  the  portrait  of  Elizabeth 
Bas,  the  very  embodiment  of  that  precise,  narrow- 
minded  and  no  doubt  high-tempered  old  widow.  I 
love  to  look  at  her,  sitting  there  with  her  hands  folded, 
as  though  listening  to  a  bit  of  gossip;  at  least,  there 
is  a  supercilious  something  about  the  lips  which  gives 
that  impression.  Perhaps  Rembrandt  so  regaled  her 
as  he  wielded  his  brush.  And  the  detail  of  the  paint- 
ing is  a  marvel  —  the  ruff  alone  is  a  thing  to  won- 
der at. 

After  this  portrait,  I  think  I  like  best  that  touching 
genre  by  Rembrandt's  greatest  pupil,  Nicholas  Maes, 
"  The  Endless  Prayer."  The  cat  clutching  at  the 
table-cloth  has  always  seemed  to  me  somehow  out  of 
drawing,  though  this  may  be  only  the  result  of  its 


A  Glance  at  Dutch  Art  185 

attitude;  but  the  remainder  of  the  picture  is  all  that 
could  be  desired.  Scarcely,  if  at  all,  inferior  to  it  is 
that  other  work  of  the  same  artist,  "  Old  Woman  Spin- 
ning." In  both  of  them  a  use  is  made  of  shadow 
quite  worthy  of  Rembrandt  himself. 

And  after  these  comes  Jan  Vermeer's  "  De  Keuken- 
meid,"  or  "  The  Milkmaid,"  as  it  is  sometimes  called 
(No.  2528a),  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  in  the 
chapter  on  Delft,  and  which  I  never  tire  of  looking 
at.  And  after  this,  Frans  Hals's  "  Jolly  Toper  "  (No. 
1091),  with  his  hand  raised  as  he  tells  a  story  or 
sings  a  song  whose  character  is  not  difficult  to  imagine. 
And  after  this  —  well,  I  scarcely  know.  There  is 
that  delicious  interior  by  Adriaen  van  Ostade,  showing 
a  group  of  peasants  before  a  hooded  fire-place,  smoking 
and  talking,  and  another  group,  in  the  background, 
sitting  about  a  table  before  a  window  with  leaded 
panes;  there  is  Ruisdael's  view  of  Haarlem,  with  the 
enormous  mass  of  the  Groote  Kerk  towering  above 
the  other  buildings;  there  is  that  jolly  portrait  by 
Frans  Hals  of  himself  and  his  wife,  Frans  laughing 
right  out  of  the  canvas,  and  his  lady  smiling  a  little 
sheepishly  at  being  caught  in  so  loving  a  posture; 
there  is  Gerard  Terborch's  "  The  Visit,"  or  "  Paren- 
tal Advice,"  as  Goethe  named  it,  with  the  standing 
female  figure  marvelously  done;  and  there  is  that 
charming  picture  by  Pieter  de  Hooch,  "  The  Buttery," 
with  its  characteristic  open  door  and  tiled  pavement, 
a  darling  thing  which  one  would  love  to  have  always 
hanging  on  one's  wall;  and  there  is  Jan  Steen's  amu- 


186  The  Spell  of  Holland 

sing  "  Feast  of  St.  Nicholas,"  with  the  bad  boy  whim- 
pering because  his  only  present  is  a  bundle  of  switches, 
while  the  good  children  have  toys  galore.  Look  at  the 
profile  of  the  old  woman  in  the  foreground.  You 
will  see  it  again  and  again  in  Steen's  pictures.  And 
there  is,  too,  perhaps  the  most  finished  picture  that 
Steen  ever  painted,  "  The  Doctor's  Visit,"  so  per- 
fectly done  that  you  can  fancy  the  painter  thinking, 
"  These  other  fellows  say  my  work  is  coarse  and  rough, 
that  I  can't  paint  any  other  way.  Well,  I  will  show 
them!"  And  he  did! 

And  then  —  there  are  all  the  other  pictures!  But 
the  ones  I  have  mentioned  above,  I  hope  you  will  look 
at  especially,  for  they  are  so  representative  of  the  best 
in  Dutch  art.  After  that  you  will  have  time  enough 
to  see  the  huge  corporation  pieces,  and  the  pictures 
of  dead  game  and  still  life,  and  the  Dutch  attempts 
at  Biblical  pictures.  "  Susannah  and  the  Elders  "  was 
a  subject  which  appealed  to  all  of  them,  and  which 
most  of  them  had  a  try  at;  but  for  the  rest,  I  cannot 
fancy  Dutch  madonnas  and  Dutch  saints.  Please 
understand  that  all  this  is  merely  an  expression  of 
personal  opinion,  without  authority  of  any  kind.  But 
I  am  sure,  when  you  come  to  look  at  these  pictures 
of  Dutch  life  understandingly,  you  will  find  yourself 
getting  from  them  an  ever-increasing  delight.  They 
are  the  best  cure  for  the  blues  I  know. 

As  I  have  said,  Dutch  art  dropped  dead  at  the  end 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  Its  death  is  as  surprising 


A  Glance  at  Dutch  Art  187 

as  its  birth.  One  would  have  supposed  that  such  a 
band  of  great  artists  as  the  middle  of  the  century 
saw  in  Holland  would  have  handed  on  the  tradition 
to  pupils  who  would  attain  an  art  ever  finer  and  more 
fine.  But  it  was  not  so.  The  masters  died  —  and 
there  were  none  to  follow.  It  was  as  though  their 
mighty  genius  had  exhausted  the  air;  there  was  no 
oxygen  left  in  it.  So  Dutch  art  became  moribund, 
asphyxiated,  and  a  century  and  a  half  elapsed  before 
it  began  to  rub  its  eyes  again. 

And  yet  those  old  Dutch  painters  were  undoubtedly 
the  pioneers  of  modern  art.  Painters  to-day  are  trying 
to  do  what  Jan  Vermeer  did  two  centuries  and  a 
half  ago  —  to  envelope  a  picture  in  natural  light,  to 
fill  a  room  with  air,  as  nature  fills  it ;  to  "  get  the 
values  right."  That  is  the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  do. 
As  you  may  see  for  yourself  if  you  will  remember  how 
many  pictures  look  as  though  they  were  painted  in  a 
vacuum ! 

About  fifty  years  ago,  Dutch  art  began  to  re-awaken, 
and  to-day  there  are  half  a  dozen  Dutch  painters  whose 
work  has  real  significance.  They  are  well  repre- 
sented at  the  Municipal  Museum  at  Amsterdam,  and 
their  pictures  are  well  worth  seeing.  Josef  Israels, 
with  his  tender  studies  of  peasant  life,  perhaps  at  times 
a  trifle  too  sentimental;  Anton  Mauve,  with  his  land- 
scapes and  sheep ;  H.  W.  Mesdag,  with  his  marines  — 
these  are  three  of  the  names  worth  looking  for. 
They  may  be  seen  at  their  best  at  the  Municipal 
Museum. 


188  The  Spell  of  Holland 

First  there  is  a  charming  marine  by  Mesdag  (No. 
110),  with  sea  and  sky  splendidly  done;  then  there 
is  Mauve's  "Sheep  on  the  Dunes"  (No.  108),  per- 
haps his  most  famous  painting;  and  there  are  no 
less  than  ten  examples  of  the  work  of  Israels.  And  I 
must  not  forget  to  mention  Blommers's  "  Little  Fisher- 
men "  (No.  20),  all  pervaded  with  sunlight  as  it  is; 
and  Meyer's  "Rescue"  (No.  114a),  with  its  trans- 
lucent water. 

We  did  not  get  to  see  the  collection  of  works  by 
the  Barbizon  school  which  the  museum  possesses,  as 
the  room  in  which  they  are  housed  was  being  done 
over  when  we  were  there.  But  the  national  pub- 
lishers' exhibition  was  in  progress,  and  we  lingered 
for  a  long  time  examining  the  products  of  Dutch 
presses,  and  some  of  the  most  beautiful  bindings  I 
have  seen  anywhere. 

There  are  two  other  collections  of  paintings  at 
Amsterdam,  the  Museum  Fodor,  which  seems  to  me 
scarcely  worth  a  visit,  and  the  collection  of  Baron  Six, 
whose  principal  treasure  is  the  portrait  of  the  baron  by 
Rembrandt;  but  it  is  only  occasionally  accessible  to 
strangers,  as  it  is  lodged  in  the  old  Six  mansion.  But 
so  long  as  the  Rijks  is  open  every  day,  one  need 
scarcely  trouble  with  less  important  collections. 

I  realize  how  inadequate  this  chapter  is.  I  wish  I 
could  make  it  better.  I  wish  I  could  make  those  won- 
derful pictures  live  for  you  as  they  have  come  to  live 
for  me.  But  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  that  can 
be  done  —  you  must  see  them  for  yourself,  if  you 


A  Glance  at  Dutch  Art  189 

have  not  already  seen  them.  And  when  you  enter 
the  Rijks  for  the  first  time,  and  give  your  umbrella 
to  the  attendant,  and  mount  the  great  staircase,  how 
I  shall  envy  you ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    HUT    OF    PETER    THE    GREAT 

I  AM  inclined  to  think,  sometimes,  that  most  guide- 
books are  written  from  hearsay,  and  that  most  travel- 
books  are  written  from  guide-books.  To  go  one  step 
further  back,  I  suspect  that  the  hearsay  is  provided 
by  the  professional  guides  who  infest  every  European 
city,  and  whose  motives  are  far  from  disinterested. 
I  do  not  understand  how  else  it  could  happen  that 
one  is  urged  to  visit  so  many  places  that  are  not  worth 
visiting,  and  discouraged  from  visiting  so  many  places 
that  are.  Perhaps  it  is  some  idiosyncrasy  of  my  own, 
but  in  other  respects  I  seem  to  be  fairly  normal. 

At  any  rate,  the  guide-books  and  travel-books  — 
and,  I  doubt  not,  the  professional  guides,  though  with 
these  I  have  no  experience  —  describe  Zaandam  as  a 
most  picturesque  place,  remarkable  for  its  brightly- 
painted  houses,  its  multitudinous  windmills,  and  dwell 
at  length  upon  the  curious  historical  interest  attached 
to  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great.  Even  old  Baedeker 
goes  out  of  his  way  to  tout  Zaandam.  Well  —  but 
you  shall  see ! 

Let  me  first  relate  the  legend  which  connects  the 
great  Czar  with  this  Dutch  village.  The  story  goes 
that,  in  1697,  the  Czar,  having  conquered  the  Turks 

190 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         191 

and  the  Tartars  and  having  his  own  dominions  well 
in  hand,  decided  to  make  a  tour  of  the  states  of  wes- 
tern Europe  in  order  to  study  their  arts  and  industries. 
Accompanied  by  fifty  guards,  four  secretaries,  twelve 
gentlemen  in  waiting,  three  ambassadors,  five  interpre- 
ters and  one  dwarf,  he  made  his  way  leisurely  through 
Livonia  and  Pomerania  to  Berlin,  where  he  stopped 
for  a  while,  and  then  came  on  to  Amsterdam  ahead  of 
his  suite,  which  had  been  detained  in  Westphalia.  At 
Amsterdam  no  one  knew  him,  so  he  passed  some  days 
in  the  government  arsenals  there;  and  then,  donning 
the  garb  of  a  sailor,  proceeded  to  Zaandam,  where  the 
most  famous  shipbuilding  yards  of  Holland  were 
situated. 

Arrived  at  Zaandam,  he  secured  employment  as  a 
carpenter  in  the  ship-building  yard  of  one  Mijnheer 
Kalf,  under  the  name  of  Peter  Michaelof.  But, 
whether  from  the  natural  majesty  of  his  manner,  or 
from  some  word  incautiously  dropped,  the  Zaandamers 
soon  penetrated  his  disguise,  and  so  annoyed  him  by 
crowding  around  to  stare  at  him,  that,  at  the  end  of 
a  week,  he  returned  in  a  huff  to  Amsterdam,  where 
his  distracted  suite  was  searching  for  him.  I  would 
only  remark  one  thing :  —  he  didn't  need  to  be  a  czar 
to  cause  the  Zaandamers  to  stare  at  him.  The  mere 
fact  that  he  was  not  a  Dutchman  would  be  sufficient. 

So,  one  bright  July  morning,  we  set  forth  duti- 
fully to  see  the  red  and  green  houses,  the  windmills, 
and  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great.  We  proceeded  leisurely 
down  the  Damrak  to  the  Stationsplein,  and  there 


192  The  Spell  of  Holland 

inquired  of  the  first  policeman  we  saw  for  the  boat 
to  Zaandam.  Let  me  explain  that  in  Holland  trains 
and  trams  and  boats  tread  on  each  other's  heels,  so 
to  speak,  and  we  had  fallen  into  the  reprehensible 
habit  of  paying  no  attention  to  time-tables,  nor  trying 
to  catch  any  particular  train  or  boat,  but  just  ambled 
along  to  the  starting-place,  whenever  we  found  it  con- 
venient. And  hitherto  it  had  been  our  good  luck  to 
find  a  train  or  boat  waiting,  apparently,  only  for  our 
arrival,  and  which  started  off  as  soon  as  we  climbed 
on  board.  This,  as  may  easily  be  seen,  was  very  pleas- 
ant; but  every  pitcher  goes  to  the  well  too  often. 
Ours  was  smashed  three  times  that  day ! 

The  first  fracture  was  due,  really,  to  the  muckle- 
headed  policeman  of  whom  we  asked  the  way  to  the 
Zaandam  boat  —  and,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  the  other 
two  followed  as  a  consequence  of  this  one!  He  made 
no  effort  to  understand,  but,  taking  it  for  granted  that, 
like  all  other  tourists,  we  wanted  to  go  to  Marken, 
he  directed  us  to  the  stage  for  that  boat.  We  were 
sure,  of  course,  it  was  the  right  one,  because  it  was 
just  ready  to  cast  off;  what  made  us  suspicious  was 
the  fact  that  it  was  crowded  with  a  Cook's  party,  as 
our  path  and  Cook's  rarely  coincided ;  and  by  the  time 
we  had  discovered  the  truth,  and  clambered  off,  and  got 
around  to  the  other  side  of  the  station,  we  found  that 
the  boat  for  Zaandam  had  got  tired  of  waiting  for  us, 
and  had  cast  off,  and  was  just  steaming  out  of  the 
dock 

However,  there  was  another  one  there  whicn  would 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         193 

start  in  half  an  hour,  so  we  went  on  board  with  no 
great  vexation  of  spirit  —  all  unconscious  as  we  were 
of  impending  calamities !  —  for  one  can  always  spend 
a  half  hour  most  profitably  and  pleasantly  watching 
the  busy  life  of  the  quays.  It  is  on  the  quays  that 
Dutch  life  reaches  its  apogee,  where  it  is  liveliest  and 
most  full  of  colour.  Next  to  the  quays  come  the  mar- 
ket-places —  the  quays  for  the  men,  the  market-places 
for  the  women.  So  we  sat  down  in  the  lee  of  the  cabin, 
for  there  was  a  lively  wind  blowing,  and  watched  the 
arrivals  and  departures,  the  passers-by  and  lookers-on, 
each  going  somewhere  with  some  purpose,  the  purpose, 
of  course,  being,  in  its  last  reduction,  the  earning  of 
a  livelihood.  Almost  before  we  knew  it,  the  half 
hour  had  passed,  the  bell  clanged,  and  we  cast  off, 
backed  out,  and  headed  up  the  Zaan. 

It  is  a  busy  river,  though  too  wide  to  be  as  interesting 
as  a  canal,  where  one  gets  into  intimate  touch  with 
the  people  along  both  banks;  to  say  nothing  of  the 
fact  that  the  little  trekschuits  are  more  picturesque 
and  home-like  and  their  crews  less  sophisticated  than 
could  be  hoped  for  on  this  large  boat.  But  there  were 
nice  little  painted  houses  back  a  bit  in  the  country, 
along  winding  roads,  and  the  sails  of  many  windmills 
beckoning  in  the  distance;  so  we  were  happy  and 
content,  confident  that  we  would  add  at  least  two 
interesting  pictures  to  our  collection  of  photographs  — • 
one  of  a  line  of  windmills  standing  like  sentinels  along 
the  river,  and  the  other  of  the  picturesque  hut  of 
Peter  the  Great. 


194  The  Spell  of  Holland 

Zaandam  was  soon  in  sight,  and  proved,  as  we  ap- 
proached it,  to  be  much  larger  and  more  modern  than 
we  had  expected.  We  looked  in  vain  for  the  quaint, 
brightly-painted  wooden  houses;  for  the  houses  were 
of  brick,  and  anything  but  quaint.  In  fact,  as  we 
soon  found  out,  the  principal  streets  do  not  differ 
greatly  in  appearance  from  the  streets  of  an  American 
town,  and  the  shops  might  almost  be  mistaken  for 
American  shops,  but  for  the  involved  signs  over  them. 
The  Dutch  language  resembles  the  German  in  one 
respect  —  three  or  four  words  are  being  constantly 
put  together  to  form  one;  and  a  shop-keeper  seems 
to  pride  himself  upon  his  ability  to  describe  in  one 
word  all  the  things  he  has  to  sell.  It  is  a  never-ending 
source  of  delight  to  dissect  these  compounds  and  dis- 
cover their  meanings.  I  am  told  that  the  Dutch  word 
for  motor-car  is  snelpaardelooszoondeerspoorwegpit- 
roolrijtung,  which  means  a  rapid  horseless  vehicle 
without  rails  driven  by  petroleum.  I  have  never 
myself  had  the  pleasure  of  encountering  this  word, 
and  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that,  as  the  motor-car  has 
become  more  common  in  Holland,  a  shorter  name 
for  it  has  been  adopted  to  save  time  —  perhaps  the 
first  and  last  syllables  of  the  above  —  but  I  do  not 
find  it  in  my  dictionary. 

As  we  drew  up  to  the  quay,  we  saw  quite  a  crowd 
of  people  assembled  there,  and  supposed  naturally  that 
they  were  waiting  to  take  the  boat  back  to  Amsterdam. 
But  we  found,  the  instant  we  set  foot  on  land,  that 
they  were  waiting,  not  for  the  boat,  but  for  us.  They 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         195 

all  desired  the  privilege  of  conducting  us  to  the  hut 
of  Peter  the  Great. 

"  Pieter  de  Groot !  Pieter  de  Groot !  "  they  shouted 
in  chorus;  boys  attempted  to  catch  our  hands,  old 
men  tapped  us  invitingly  with  canes,  old  women 
beckoned.  It  was  as  though  we  were  about  to  attempt 
st>me  desperate  enterprise,  such  as  climbing  the  Jung- 
frau,  for  which  the  services  of  an  experienced  and  in- 
trepid guide  were  an  absolute  necessity. 

Now,  I  have  an  aversion  to  guides,  especially  dirty 
ones;  besides,  my  eye  happened  to  fall  upon  a  sign 
at  the  end  of  the  pier,  with  an  arrow  pointing  the  way 
to  the  place  we  were  seeking;  so  we  shook  our  heads, 
and  said  "  Neen,  neen !  "  and  fought  our  way  through, 
and  made  off  down  the  street.  I  have  since  puzzled 
considerably  over  how  that  sign  came  to  be  placed 
there,  for  it  must  interfere  seriously  with  one  of  Zaan- 
dam's  principal  industries  —  the  guiding  of  visitors 
to  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great  —  an  industry  which 
gives  employment,  in  summer,  at  least,  to  a  consider- 
able number  of  people,  and  in  which  any  Zaandamer, 
as  we  presently  found,  was  willing,  for  a  small  con- 
sideration, instantly  to  engage. 

We  loitered  along,  after  we  had  shaken  off  the 
crowd,  looking  at  the  people  and  the  shops,  and 
occasionally  refusing  an  offer  to  be  taken  to  the  hut 
of  Peter  the  Great,  secure  in  the  consciousness  that 
we  were  following  the  direction  indicated  by  the  arrow. 
It  led  us  along  a  narrow,  cobbled  lane,  past  the  town- 
hall,  across  a  lock-gate  with  a  little  iron  railing  on 


196  The  Spell  of  Holland 

either  side  to  keep  one  from  falling  off,  through  an 
alley,  and  finally  into  a  long  and  uninteresting  street. 

"  I  don't  see  any  sign  of  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great," 
I  said.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better  make  some  in- 
quiries." 

So  we  went  into  a  shop  and  bought  some  post-cards, 
but  when  we  tried  to  ask  the  way  to  the  hut  of  Peter 
the  Great,  we  found  that  Zaandam  is  one  of  the  few 
Dutch  towns  where  English  is  not  spoken.  With  the 
aid  of  my  dictionary  I  contrived  to  make  myself 
understood  fairly  well,  but  we  were  utterly  unable 
to  comprehend  the  voluble  and  complicated  directions 
so  earnestly  given  us.  It  reminded  me  of  the  days 
when  I  was  a  boy  and  was  studying  telegraphy:  I 
never  had  any  difficulty  sending  a  message,  however 
much  difficulty  the  other  fellow  had  in  taking  it,  but 
when  it  came  my  turn  to  receive,  I  was  lost ! 

However,  one  can  always  point,  and  we  inferred, 
at  last,  from  emphatic  gestures,  that  we  had  over- 
shot the  mark  and  must  go  back  the  way  we  had 
come. 

So  we  went  back  across  the  lock-gate,  and  past  the 
town-hall,  and  here  we  came  upon  a  policeman,  stand- 
ing against  the  wall  in  the  sun  and  dozing  peacefully. 
We  woke  him  gently  and  stated  our  difficulty.  He 
knew  at  once  where  we  wanted  to  go  —  we  found  out 
afterwards  that  there  isn't  any  place  else  to  go  in 
Zaandam,  so  perhaps  my  Dutch  wasn't  as  good  as  I 
thought  it  was !  —  and  he  also  directed  us  with  much 
detail,  and  pointed. 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         197 

Now  pointing  is  all  right  when  it  is  done  in  a 
straight  line,  but  it  has  its  limitations  when  it  comes  to 
indicating  three  or  four  turns.  However,  we  gathered 
the  general  direction,  and  followed  it  for  some  time, 
without  seeing  anything  that  looked  like  the  hut  of 
Peter  the  Great.  From  time  to  time,  a  passer-by  would 
stop  and  ask  us  if  he  might  not  conduct  us  to  the  hut 
of  Peter  the  Great,  one  of  the  things  at  Zaandam  which 
every  visitor  wished  to  see;  but  I  sternly  said  no,  for 
I  was  determined  to  find  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great 
unaided. 

If  Betty  hadn't  been  along,  I  should  probably  still 
be  walking  about  Zaandam  looking  for  the  hut  of 
Peter  the  Great;  but  she  finally  protested  that  she 
had  had  all  the  foot-exercise  she  cared  for  that  morn- 
ing, and  annexed  a  wooden-shoed  urchin  who  was 
hovering  in  the  offing,  showed  him  a  stuiver,  and 
pronounced  the  magic  words : 

"  Pieter  de  Groot." 

He  nodded  his  head,  his  eyes  glistening,  and 
promptly  descended  some  steps,  turned  down  a  nar- 
row little  alley,  crossed  a  hipped  foot-bridge  over  a 
dirty  little  canal,  led  the  way  along  a  dirty  little  street, 
and  stopped  before  a  tall  iron  railing,  behind  which 
was  apparently  a  new  brick  church.  I  told  him  we 
were  not  interested  in  new  brick  churches;  that  we 
could  see  plenty  of  them  back  in  America,  and 
again  desired  him  to  lead  us  to  the  hut  of  Peter  the 
Great. 

He  refused  to  budge,  but  demanded  that  we  pull 


198  The  Spell  of  Holland 

at  a  bell  which  hung  before  the  gate ;  also  that  we  give 
him  the  stuiver.  At  least,  I  judged  this  to  be  the 
substance  of  his  excited  remarks. 

By  this  time,  a  large  and  curious  crowd  had 
gathered,  and  was  watching  our  proceedings  with 
intent  interest,  commenting  on  our  clothing  and  per- 
sonal appearance,  which  evidently  did  not  impress 
them  favourably.  So  we  gave  the  boy  the  stuiver 
and  pulled  the  bell,  and  presently  a  little  old  woman 
came  and  peeped  out  cautiously,  from  which  I  judged 
that  the  boys  of  the  neighbourhood  were  in  the  habit 
of  taking  a  yank  at  the  bell  as  they  passed.  But  when 
she  saw  Betty  and  me,  she  hastened  to  open  the  gate 
and  invite  us  in. 

We  told  her  how  sorry  we  were  to  disturb  her; 
that  a  thick-headed  boy  had  brought  us  here,  and 
insisted  we  ring  the  bell;  that  we  would  go  out  again 
in  a  minute,  as  soon  as  the  crowd  outside  had  dis- 
persed; that  we  were  hunting  the  hut  of  Peter  the 
Great  — 

"  Ja,"  she  interrupted,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  com- 
prehension for  the  first  time,  "  dit  is  het,"  and  she 
pointed  toward  the  new  brick  chapel. 

I  looked  her  squarely  in  the  eye  and  repeated  that 
we  were  looking  for  the  hut  in  which  Peter  the  Great, 
Czar  of  Russia,  had  lived  during  his  visit  to  Zaandam, 
something  over  three  hundred  years  before. 

"  Ja,  ja  —  dit  is  het !  "  she  repeated ;  so  we  gave 
it  up,  and  entered  the  chapel  —  and  found  that  she  was 
right. 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         199 

For  the  new  brick  chapel  is  merely  the  shell  which 
Czar  Nicholas  built  a  few  years  ago  to  protect  the 
alleged  stopping-place  of  his  distinguished  prede- 
cessor upon  the  throne  of  Russia.  It  was  a  wooden 
ohack  of  two  rooms,  and  had  broken  in  two  in  the 
middle,  and  was  rapidly  disintegrating,  when  Nicho- 
las came  to  the  rescue  and  sent  an  engineer  to  the 
scene,  who,  by  an  elaborate  system  of  bolts  and  braces 
and  a  new  foundation,  has  managed  to  hold  the  rem- 
nants together.  Then  a  brick  house  was  built  around 
it,  and  there  you  are. 

There  are,  perhaps,  some  people  who  like  to  look 
at  broken-backed  hovels  bricked  in  to  keep  out  the 
weather,  but  a  very  few  minutes  sufficed  us.  There 
are  only  two  rooms  in  the  house,  with  a  few  pieces 
of  old  furniture  and  a  cupboard-bed  built  into  the  wall, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Dutch.  There  is  also  a  fire- 
place said  to  be  interesting,  I  know  not  why;  and  an 
ikon  brought  by  one  of  the  Grand  Dukes,  and  a  tablet 
set  up  by  another  to  commemorate  his  visit,  and  a 
motto  on  the  wall,  placed  there  by  a  third,  reading, 
"  Neits  is  den  grooten  man  te  klein,"  which  means, 
"  Nothing  is  too  small  for  a  great  man,"  a  sentiment 
supposed  to  have  been  uttered  by  the  Great  Peter. 
There  are  a  few  other  memorials  of  High  Mighti- 
nesses who  have  visited  the  place,  and  a  book  in  which 
to  write  your  name;  and  that  is  all,  except  the  tip  to 
the  caretaker. 

The  plot  of  ground  upon  which  the  house  stands 
was  bought  by  Nicholas,  so  that  it  is  now  Russian 


200  The  Spell  of  Holland 

territory,  supervised  by  the  Russian  consul.  It  is  the 
only  spot  in  Holland  so  sacred  that  no  one  may  smoke 
there,  and  a  little  rack  is  provided  outside  the  gate 
in  which  to  deposit  your  cigar  before  entering,  the 
same  to  be  resumed  when  you  come  out.  The  rack 
was  empty  that  day,  and  I  speculated  as  to  whether 
a  cigar  left  there  would  be  safe  from  passing  urchins; 
if  I  was  a  boy  and  lived  in  that  neighbourhood,  I  am 
sure  I  should  regard  that  rack  as  a  legitimate  source 
of  supply.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  not  experiment 
to  find  out. 

As  we  made  our  way  back  along  the  little  street, 
and  over  the  little  bridge,  and  through  the  little  alley 
and  up  the  narrow  steps,  I  determined  to  start  a 
subscription  to  erect  suitable  and  explicit  signboards 
all  along  the  route,  giving  instructions  in  every  lan- 
guage how  to  reach  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great.  I 
saw  myself  a  benefactor  of  nations,  decorated  by 
their  rulers,  thanked  by  their  learned  societies;  but 
subsequent  reflection  has  caused  me  to  change  my 
mind.  For  what  is  the  use  to  point  the  way  to  a 
thing  that  is  not  worth  seeing? 

The  exertions  of  the  morning  had  made  us  both 
hungry,  so  we  stopped  at  a  little  corner  restaurant, 
and  sat  down  at  a  table  on  the  sidewalk  and  had  some- 
thing to  eat.  I  noticed  that  the  waiter  was  walking  up 
and  down  with  his  eye  on  us,  and  a  perplexed  look 
on  his  face,  and  supposed  that  it  was  merely  anxiety 
about  his  tip ;  but  when  he  saw  that  we  were  ready  to 
depart,  he  came  forward. 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         201 

"  Pardon,  mijnheer,"  he  said,  in  a  jumble  of  French, 
Dutch  and  English ;  "  has  mijnheer  de  huis  van 
Pieter  de  Groot  besoeken?  " 

"  Pieter  de  Groot ! "  I  echoed,  staring  at  him. 
"What  is  that?" 

"  Pieter  de  Groot !  "  he  repeated,  waving  his  hands. 
"  De  Czar  of  Russie  —  he  lif  here !  " 

"  The  Czar  of  Russia !  "  I  cried,  remembering  Mark 
Twain,  and  warming  to  the  work.  "  He  lives  here  — 
in  this  house !  " 

"  Neen,  neen !  Not  in  dis  huis,  mijnheer ;  but  near 
—  ver'  near.  I  vill  mijnheer  conduct,"  and  he  began 
hastily  to  take  off  his  apron. 

"  Wait,"  I  said.    "  Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"At  home?" 

"  Yes.    Is  he  at  home  ?    Will  he  receive  us  ?  " 

He  stared  at  me  for  an  instant  without  understand- 
ing—  then  a  light  broke. 

"  Oh,  mijnheer,"  he  protested.  "  He  hass  died  t'ree 
hondred  year." 

"  But  you  said  he  lived  here !  " 

"  Ja,  mijnheer,  t'ree  hondred  year  already;  but  his 
huis  is  ver'  near ;  I  vill  mijnheer  conduct." 

"  Wait,"  I  said  again.  "  What  else  is  there  to  see 
in  Zaandam?  " 

"  Wat  else,  mijnheer?  " 

"  Ja  —  wat  else.  Is  there  nothing  but  the  hut  of 
Pieter  de  Groot?" 

"  Neen,  mijnheer,"  and  he  shook  his  head.  "  Dat 
is  al." 


202  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  we  will  not  wait.  We  will  go 
on  at  once  to  Zandijk." 

"  To  Zandijk !    But  de  huis  of  Pieter  de  Groot !  " 

"  We  do  not  care  to  see  it,"  I  said.  "  Which  is  the 
way  to  Zandijk?  " 

Unable  to  speak,  he  pointed  down  the  street  which 
parallelled  the  river,  and  stood  staring  after  us  until 
a  turn  hid  us  from  sight. 

"  There !  "  I  said.  "  That's  what  I  came  to  Europe 
for.  That's  what  I've  longed  to  do  ever  since  I  read 
Innocents  Abroad !  " 

"  Yes,"  Betty  agreed  with  a  lack  of  enthusiasm 
that  surprised  me.  "  But  what's  at  Zandijk?  " 

"  Windmills,  my  dear !  "  I  cried.  "  Hundreds  of 
windmills.  It's  their  breeding-place;  there  are  big 
ones  and  little  ones;  they  stand  all  along  the  river, 
so  close  together  that  their  sails  get  tangled  sometimes. 
Oh,  we'll  get  a  beautiful  picture!  " 

"  Do  we  have  to  walk?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  I  admitted.  "  There's  no  tram. 
It  can't  be  very  far,  or  there'd  be  a  tram.  Besides, 
Baedeker  says  —  " 

We  fought  our  way  against  a  stiff  head-wind,  along 
a  dirty  paved  street,  with  ugly  modern  brick  houses 
on  both  sides  of  it,  and  factories  and  breweries,  and  a 
badly-smelling  ditch  now  and  then,  fondly  imagining 
that  at  every  turn  we  should  emerge  upon  a  windmill- 
bordered  canal.  But  we  never  did.  Once  in  a  while 
we  got  a  glimpse  of  the  river  back  of  the  houses,  and 
once  we  tried  to  get  across  by  means  of  a  raihva:; 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         203 

bridge,  in  spite  of  the  "  Verboden  Toegang "  sign, 
only  to  be  informed  that  that  was  not  the  way  to 
Zandijk.  And  after  we  had  walked  along  that  never- 
ending  street  for  about  two  hours,  I  began  to  have 
misgivings,  and  stopped  at  a  store  and  asked  the  way 
to  Zandijk. 

"Zandijk!"  repeated  the  girl  behind  the  counter, 
staring  at  us  as  though  we  were  crazy.  "  Dit  is  het !  " 

"This,  Zandijk!"  I  exclaimed.  "  Maar  waar 
is  der  wind-molen?"  I  went  on,  with  the  aid  of 
my  dictionary,  in  what  was  doubtless  execrable 
Dutch. 

It  was  at  this  moment  I  discovered  that  my  diction- 
ary failed  to  give  the  word  for  windmill.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  understand  it,  but  so  it  is.  That  a  Dutch 
dictionary  should  omit  "  sky-scraper  "  and  "  subway  " 
does  not  surprise  me,  but  windmill! 

"  Wind-molen !  "  said  the  girl,  and  threw  up  her 
hands  and  explained.  I  gathered,  at  the  end  of  quite 
a  conversation,  that  steam  was  supplanting  wind  as 
the  motive  power  for  the  Zandijk  mills,  and  that  their 
glory  had  departed. 

"  Well,"  I  said  to  Betty,  carefully  avoiding  her  eye, 
and  speaking  with  a  jocularity  I  was  far  from  feeling, 
"  it  seems  we  are  fooled  again.  I  guess  we  might 
as  well  go  back." 

"  The  same  way  ?  "  Betty  inquired,  sweetly. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  we  can't  walk  back  ten  miles  along 
that  infernal  street.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done." 

At  the  end  of  some  further  conversation,  I  learned 


204 The  Spell  of  Holland 

that  there  was  a  "  stoom-boot "  landing  just  above, 
where  the  Alkmaar  packet  touched,  and  we  hastened 
thither,  finding  it  with  some  difficulty,  for  it,  also,  was 
down  a  dirty  little  lane. 

"  Boot  naar  Zaandam  ?  "  I  said  to  an  old  man  who 
was  coiling  a  rope  on  the  pier-head. 

For  answer,  he  pointed  down  the  stream,  and  there, 
not  two  hundred  feet  away,  was  the  Alkmaar  packet, 
just  gathering  headway.  Again  I  avoided  Betty's 
eye,  as  we  sank  down  in  despair  upon  a  bench.  The 
despair  deepened  when  we  learned  that  there  would 
be  no  other  boat  to  Zaandam  for  two  hours. 

To  remain  there  for  two  hours  was  unthinkable; 
and  I  bestirred  myself;  but  there  was  no  tram,  no 
carriage,  no  public  conveyance  of  any  kind.  After 
an  interval,  it  occurred  to  me  that  there  might  be  a 
railway. 

"  Ja,"  there  was  a  "  spoor-weg,"  but  it  was  half 
a  mile  away.  We  finally  found  it;  only  to  see  a 
train  pull  in,  stop,  and  puff  away  just  before  we  got 
there.  There  would  be  no  other  train  for  an  hour. 
So  I  left  Betty  in  the  waiting-room  to  rest  and  went 
out  to  inspect  something  interesting  which  I  had  dis- 
covered close  by. 

Reader,  you  will  never  guess  what  it  was.  It  was 
a  cemetery  —  the  first  I  had  seen  in  Holland ;  and  now, 
that  I  look  back  at  it,  it  seems  peculiarly  appropriate 
that  I  should  have  found  it  at  just  that  time!  We 
had  been  in  Holland  some  weeks,  we  had  seen  village 
after  village,  we  had  ridden  back  and  forth  through 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         205 

the  country  on  boat  and  train  and  tram,  but,  at  last, 
it  occurred  to  us  that  we  had  never  seen  a  cemetery. 
After  that,  we  looked  for  one  —  in  vain.  Finally, 
I  asked  the  head-waiter  at  the  hotel  at  Haarlem  what 
happened  to  people  when  they  died  in  Holland  —  did 
they  dry  up  and  blow  away,  or  what  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  he  answered,  looking  somewhat 
scandalized.  "  You  will  see  the  funerals  pass  this 
door  each  morning  at  ten  o'clock." 

"I've  seen  funerals,"  I  said;  "one  anyway.  But 
I've  never  seen  a  graveyard.  I'd  begun  to  think  there 
weren't  any." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  answered  me  solemnly,  "  there 
are  graveyards."  But  he  vouchsafed  no  further  in- 
formation. 

So  the  mystery  continued;  but  it  was  solved  at 
Zandijk.  I  should  never  have  suspected  the  place 
was  a  graveyard,  but  for  the  funeral  standing  at  the 
gate.  I  watched  the  pall-bearers,  in  their  queer  cos- 
tumes, shoulder  the  coffin;  then  two  men  got  out  of 
the  single  carriage  and  followed  them  through  the 
gate,  and  I  ventured  to  peep  in.  The  place  was 
surrounded  by  a  thick  hedge,  and  the  gravestones 
were  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  so  that  no  glimpse 
of  them  was  visible  above  the  hedge.  Artificial 
flowers  in  glass  cases  seemed  the  prevailing  form  of 
decoration.  Outside  the  hedge  was  a  little  canal, 
effectually  keeping  away  intruders.  And  while  I  was 
standing  there,  I  saw  something  else  which  helped 
to  render  the  memory  of  that  day  unpleasant. 


206 The  Spell  of  Holland 

I  have  referred  more  than  once  to  the  fact  that  in 
Holland  dogs  are  very  generally  used  to  help  pull  the 
little  carts  in  which  most  of  the  land  commerce  is 
carried  on.  They  are  hitched  to  milk-wagons  and  vege- 
table-carts, and  all  sorts  of  vehicles;  but  rarely  have  I 
seen  one  which  seemed  overloaded  or  overworked. 
They  are  usually  happy  and  vivacious,  with  plenty  of 
wind  to  bark  with.  But,  as  I  stood  there  by  the  gate,  a 
cart  came  along  in  which  two  men  were  riding  and 
which  a  single  dog  was  pulling,  urged  forward  by  a 
lash.  He  was  not  a  large  dog,  either,  and  his  red 
eyes  were  rimmed  with  dust,  and  his  black  tongue 
was  hanging  from  his  mouth,  as  he  struggled  for 
breath.  As  I  went  back  to  the  station,  I  came 
upon  the  dog  hitched  beside  a  gate.  He  was 
standing  with  his  head  down,  still  panting  desper- 
ately, and  the  pavement  under  him  was  wet  with 
saliva. 

I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  one  hates  to  see  a  dog 
mistreated,  more  than  any  other  animal;  perhaps 
because  the  dog  has  proved  himself  so  faithful  and 
affectionate;  but  the  shadow  of  that  incident  clouded 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 

The  train  came  along  presently,  and  we  bought 
tickets  clear  through  to  Amsterdam.  I  still  have  the 
return-tickets  on  the  steamboat.  They  cost  twelve 
and  a  half  cents  Dutch,  and  it  annoys  me  yet  that  I 
didn't  get  to  use  them. 

Let  me  add  that,  to  pronounce  Zaandam  correctly, 
one  must  accent  the  last  syllable. 


The  Hut  of  Peter  the  Great         207 

"  Betty,"  I  said,  that  evening  after  dinner,  "  I 
think  we'd  better  go  over  to  the  Kalverstraat  and  get 
that  brooch  you  were  looking  at  yesterday." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Betty ;  and  we  went. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    CITY    OF    RIPENED    CURDS 

EDAM  cheese  no  longer  comes  from  Edam;  in  this 
respect  the  name  is  as  misleading  as  that  of  Greek 
fire  or  Roman  candles.  And,  indeed,  the  glory  that 
was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome  have 
not  more  certainly  departed  from  this  earth  than  has 
the  red  blood  of  commerce  from  the  arteries  of  that 
little  dead  Dutch  village,  lying  a  mile  or  two  back 
from  the  Zuyder  Zee,  shrunk  to  less  than  one-fifth 
its  former  size,  and  with  scarcely  a  shadow  of  its 
former  splendour. 

The  centre  of  the  North  Holland  cheese  trade  has 
passed,  by  some  mysterious  jugglery  of  fate,  to  another 
little  town,  not  many  miles  away  —  Alkmaar  —  "  the 
extreme  verge  of  habitable  earth,"  as  Motley  calls  it, 
where,  nearly  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  "  the 
spirit  of  Holland's  freedom  stood  at  bay "  against 
the  Spaniards  —  and  was  not  conquered ! 

The  name  of  the  town  is  a  significant  one,  for 
Alkmaar  means  "  all  sea."  But  it  is  not  nearly  so 
wet  as  it  used  to  be;  for  the  morass  which  at  one 
time  extended  for  miles  around  it,  has  been  drained 
and  converted  into  rich  farmland,  and  the  numerous 

208 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          209 

lakes  have  been  narrowed  to  canals,  so  that  the  little 
town  looks  quite  dry  and  inland  —  for  Holland. 

There  are  two  ways  of  getting  there  from  Amster- 
dam —  the  most  picturesque,  as  always,  being  by 
water,  and  the  speediest  by  rail.  If  you  go  by  boat, 
you  will  see,  above  Zaandam,  the  windmills  which 
have  survived  the  introduction  of  steam,  and  from 
a  distance  there  seems  to  be  such  a  lot  of  them  that 
I  am  rather  inclined  to  suspect  the  veracity  of  that 
girl  at  Zandijk;  you  will  cross  what  remains  of  Alk- 
maar  Meer,  and  then,  entering  the  North  Holland 
canal,  will  skirt  the  Beemster,  once  the  bottom  of  a 
lake,  now  a  rich  polder,  laid  out,  as  all  polders  are, 
with  rule  and  line,  so  that  its  regular  fields  of  grain 
or  hay  look  like  the  squares  of  a  chess-board;  you 
will  see  how  the  canals  are  all  higher  than  the  land, 
and  remembering  how  the  North  Sea  is  held  back 
a  few  miles  to  the  west  by  a  line  of  dunes,  and  the 
Zuyder  Zee  a  few  miles  to  the  east  by  a  line  of  dykes, 
you  will  understand  why  it  was  that  the  Spanish  army 
besieging  Alkmaar,  learning  that  William  of  Orange 
was  preparing  to  cut  these  dykes,  fled  in  haste  for 
their  lives.  For  the  waters  of  both  North  Sea  and 
South  Sea  are  many  feet  above  the  level  of  this  frail 
peninsula,  lying  in  a  hollow  between  them. 

The  journey  by  train  presents  less  of  interest.  The 
country  near  Amsterdam  seems  even  flatter  than  else- 
where in  Holland,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  the 
effect,  I  suppose,  being  due  to  the  fact  that  the  rail- 
way runs  so  high  above  it.  The  fields  are  beautifully 


210  The  Spell  of  Holland 

laid  out  and  most  carefully  cultivated,  and  there  are 
long  rows  of  trees  in  the  semi-distance,  marking  the 
course  of  a  road  or  canal,  and  groups  of  character- 
istic red-tiled  houses,  and  always  and  everywhere  the 
great  black-and-white  cows  grazing  in  the  pastures. 
One  changes  cars  at  Uitgeest,  and  from  there  on  the 
train  is  apt  to  be  crowded.  By  whichever  way  you  go 
the  day  for  the  excursion  is  always  Friday,  and  one 
should  arrive  at  Alkmaar  not  later  than  half -past 
nine. 

It  was  just  after  nine  o'clock  of  a  bright  Friday 
morning  in  early  July  that  Betty  and  I  reached 
Alkmaar,  and,  to  get  to  the  market-place,  had  only 
to  follow  the  crowd.  For  on  Friday,  Alkmaar  lives, 
breathes,  and  has  its  being  in  cheese.  On  the  out- 
skirts of  the  market,  we  passed  between  rows  of  high- 
beamed  wagons,  varnished  to  a  mirror-like  surface 
on  the  outside  and  painted  a  bright  blue  inside;  some 
showing  the  grain  of  the  natural  wood;  others  painted 
black  or  brown  and  decorated  with  garlands  of  flowers 
in  white  and  red  and  gold.  It  was  in  these  wagons 
that  the  cheese  had  been  brought  to  the  market  from 
the  neighbouring  farms,  and  many  of  them  were  not 
yet  unloaded. 

A  moment  later  we  came  out  upon  the  market- 
place and  saw  a  sight  such  as  is  to  be  seen  nowhere 
else  in  the  world.  The  market-place  is  nearly  square 
in  shape,  and  I  should  guess  it  to  be  a  little  less  than 
three  hundred  feet  each  way.  Along  one  side  runs 
a  canal,  facing,  and  a  few  yards  back  from  which, 


The  City  of  Eipened  Curds          211 

is  the  old  weigh-house.  The  other  two  sides  are  closed 
in  by  little  brick  houses.  The  square  is  cobbled,  and 
all  across  this  space,  from  one  side  to  the  other,  were 
piled  the  red  and  yellow  cheeses. 

They  were  not  piled  "  like  cannon-balls,"  as  I  have 
often  seen  asserted,  but  in  long  parallelograms,  two 
cheeses  deep,  eight  wide  and  perhaps  a  hundred  long, 
with  just  enough  room  between  for  one  to  walk.  One 
might  almost  fancy  it  a  quaint  garden,  with  beds  all 
of  a  size  and  little  sunken  paths  running  across  it; 
and,  I  imagine,  the  cheese  is  piled  in  this  special  form 
to  assist  the  purchaser  in  estimating  the  amount  of 
his  purchase. 

This  was  the  factory  cheese,  which  had  been  brought 
in  by  boat  the  day  before,  unloaded,  piled  on  the  pave- 
ment with  a  careful  exactitude  characteristically  Dutch, 
and  then  covered  with  tarpaulins  and  grass,  the  for- 
mer to  keep  off  the  wet,  the  latter  to  keep  off  the  sun. 
They  varied  in  colour  from  a  light  yellow  to  a  deep 
and  violent  red,  and  all  of  them  had  been  greased 
till  they  shone  like  burnished  metal.  They  were  all  of 
a  size  —  about  six  or  seven  inches  in  diameter,  and 
a  hasty  computation  placed  the  number  at  that  moment 
in  the  market-place  at  twenty-five  thousand  —  a  week's 
product.  Something  like  ten  million  pounds  of  cheese 
is  sold  in  this  market-place  every  year,  which  makes 
a  weekly  average  of  about  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  One  doesn't  realize,  until  he  sees  it,  what 
a  lot  of  cheese  that  is! 

The  selling  does  not  begin  until  ten  o'clock,  so  that 


212  The  Spell  of  Holland 

buyers  and  sellers  alike  were  standing  around  and 
chatting  together  unconcernedly,  or  watching  the  un- 
loading of  still  more  cheeses  from  a  tardily-arrived 
barge.  The  process  illustrates  the  cheapness  of  labour 
in  Holland.  At  the  factory,  the  cheeses  had  been 
passed  into  the  boat  one  by  one,  and  carefully  placed 
on  racks  in  the  hold.  Arrived  at  the  market-place, 
two  men  take  down  the  golden  balls  and  hand  them 
up  to  two  other  men  on  the  deck,  who  give  them  a 
final  touching  up  with  a  greasy  rag  and  then  toss  them 
to  two  men  on  the  quay,  who  carefully  stack  them 
in  rectangular  piles.  After  they  have  been  sold,  most 
of  them  are  placed  back  in  the  same  racks  from  which 
they  were  taken,  and  carried  away  to  Amsterdam, 
or  wherever  the  buyer's  warehouse  happens  to  be.  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  why  the  buyer  does  not  go 
direct  to  the  factory  and  make  his  purchase,  and  so 
save  all  this  handling,  which  must  add  appreciably 
to  the  cost  of  the  cheese.  The  reason,  I  suppose,  is 
that  it  has  never  been  done  that  way. 

At  'one  end  of  the  square,  and  the  most  interesting 
thing  in  it,  stands  the  old  weigh-house.  It  was  orig- 
inally a  church  —  the  church  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
but  in  1582,  at  a  time  when  Catholic  churches  were  at 
somewhat  of  a  discount  in  this  part  of  Holland,  it 
was  transformed  into  a  weigh-house,  and  very  skil- 
fully, too.  At  the  end  toward  the  canal  are  three 
wide-arched  doors  protected  by  a  canopy,  each  of  them 
giving  entrance  to  a  great  beam-scale.  By  the  side  of 
each  scale  is  a  tall  pile  of  queerly-shaped  barrows 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          213 

for  carrying  the  cheese,  and  standing  near  by  are  the 
porters,  garbed  very  suitably  in  white  canvas.  The 
queer  note  in  their  costumes  is  the  flat  hat  of  var- 
nished straw  which  each  one  wears,  with  little  stream- 
ers hanging  down  behind.  For  some  of  the  hats  are 
yellow,  and  some  are  green,  and  some  are  red;  and 
then  you  will  notice  that  the  barrows  are  painted  the 
same  colours;  and  then  you  will  see  that  the  men 
with  green  hats  are  with  the  green  barrows,  and  so 
on;  and  finally,  when  you  are  wondering  at  all  this, 
you  will  perceive  that  the  weights  of  the  several  scales 
are  also  painted  red,  or  yellow,  or  green;  and  finally 
you  will  understand  that  the  green  barrows  serve  the 
green  scales,  and  the  yellow  barrows  the  yellow  scales, 
and  the  red  barrows  the  red  scales.  All  of  which  is 
designed  to  simplify  the  process  of  weighing,  and  is 
part  of  a  system  which  has  existed  from  time  im- 
memorial. 

Let  me  add  that  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  ex- 
plained to  us  by  a  middle-aged  man  who  was  eager 
to  talk  —  an  American,  as  he  proudly  proclaimed 
himself  —  who  was  back  for  a  visit  at  his  old 
home,  and  who  had  evidently  been  welcomed  heart- 
ily by  his  old  acquaintances.  Yes,  he  said,  Holland 
was  very  nice,  but  there  was  no  place  like  America  — 
and  more  to  the  same  purpose  —  exactly  what  all 
Americanized  Europeans  say,  and  evidently  from  the 
heart! 

The  handsome  tower  which  rises  above  the  weigh- 
house  dates  from  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century, 


214  The  Spell  of  Holland 

and  is  also  worthy  of  attention.  It  rises  from  the 
roof  massive  and  square;  then  it  changes  to  an 
octagon,  and  then  to  a  still  smaller  octagon  with  open 
sides,  displaying  the  ranged  bells  of  the  chimes.  The 
termination  is  a  Turkish-looking  bulbous  affair  of 
metal,  after  the  fashion  so  common  in  the  Nether- 
lands—  an  inheritance,  they  tell  us,  of  the  days  when 
the  Hollanders  returned  from  the  Crusades,  bringing 
many  Oriental  ideas  with  them  —  the  bulbous  cupola 
being  one,  and  the  wind-mill  another! 

But  the  interest  of  the  tower  is  not  yet  exhausted; 
for,  if  you  look  closely,  you  will  discern,  just  under 
the  clock-dial,  a  mannikin  with  a  long  trumpet  in  his 
hand,  and  beneath  him  a  curious  oblong  opening,  with 
a  circular  projection  under  it,  whose  use  you  will 
wonder  at.  But  wait;  ten  o'clock  is  about  to  strike, 
and  you  will  see! 

The  hour  is  tolled  softly,  and  yet  clearly,  by  a 
beautiful  bell;  then  the  carillon  plays  a  merry  tune; 
then  the  mannikin  places  the  trumpet  to  his  lips  and 
blows  ten  shrill  blasts,  and,  as  though  in  answer  to 
a  signal,  little  painted  horses  career  in  and  out  of  the 
opening  below  him,  running  a  race.  It  is  all  very 
amusing  and  very  Dutch.  Perhaps  there  is  some  con- 
nection between  this  mimic  race  and  the  great  "  hard- 
draverij,"  (hard-drivery  —  what  a  beautiful  com- 
pound it  is!),  or  trotting-races,  which  are  held  here 
every  August,  and  which  attract  many  thousands  of 
visitors.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  our  own  trotting- 
races  are  a  direct  descendant  of  these,  and  were 


THE   WEIGH-HOUSE,   ALKMAAR. 


The  City  of  Eipened  Curds          215 

brought  to  us  by  the  Dutch  who  settled  New  Neder- 
land. 

But  ten  o'clock  has  struck,  and  the  scene  in  the 
market-place  has  taken  on  a  more  animated  char- 
acter. The  grass  has  been  brushed  aside  and  the 
tarpaulins  stripped  away  from  the  piles  of  cheeses, 
and  up  and  down  the  narrow  lanes  the  buyers  walk, 
looking  at  them,  picking  them  up  and  "  hefting " 
them,  and  slapping  them  violently  with  a  sound  much 
like  slapping  a  ripe  watermelon.  I  don't  know  what 
that  sound  tells  them  —  perhaps  when  they  go  "  pink  " 
they're  bad  and  when  they  go  "  punk  "  they're  good ; 
but  great  emphasis  seems  to  be  placed  upon  this  point, 
and  the  buyer  will  sometimes  handle  half  a  dozen 
in  this  way  before  he  takes  the  trouble  to  sample  one. 
I  suppose  my  ear  has  not  been  trained  —  at  any  rate, 
I  was  unable  to  detect  the  slightest  difference  in  the 
note  which  the  cheeses  gave  off. 

The  sampling  is  a  very  serious  operation,  and  is 
done  in  a  curious  fashion.  The  buyer  takes  from 
his  pocket  a  tiny  scoop,  and  plunging  it  deep  into 
the  cheese,  gives  it  a  turn  and  pulls  it  out  again,  bring- 
ing a  little  plug  of  cheese  with  it.  This  he  smells, 
crumbles  between  his  fingers,  examines  minutely,  and 
sometimes  tastes  —  though  the  taste  seems  to  be  a 
minor  consideration  —  after  which  he  neatly  replaces 
what  is  left  of  the  plug,  so  that  you  can  scarcely  see 
that  the  cheese  has  been  touched. 

Meanwhile  the  old  farmers  who  have  the  cheese 
for  sale  stand  stolidly  by,  puffing  their  cigars,  but 


216  The  Spell  of  Holland 

unable  to  conceal  altogether  their  anxiety  for  the 
buyer's  verdict.  I  suppose  that  business  is  much  the 
same  all  the  world  over;  at  any  rate,  the  same  prin- 
ciple which,  here  in  America,  brings  the  big  potatoes 
to  the  top  of  the  barrel,  also,  in  Holland,  brings  the 
best  cheese  to  the  top  of  the  pile.  That,  at  least,  I 
take  to  be  the  reason  why  so  many  of  the  buyers 
dig  the  cheese  they  wish  to  sample  out  of  the  bottom 
row. 

But  at  last  the  verdict  is  ready.  The  buyer  says 
a  word  or  two  to  the  seller,  telling  what  he  thinks 
of  the  cheese,  naming  a  price,  and  striking  the  other's 
hand  with  his  open  palm.  The  seller  shakes  his  head, 
names  a  higher  price  and  slaps  back.  Then  one  of 
two  things  happens;  either  the  buyer  shrugs  his 
shoulders  and  goes  off  to  another  pile,  while  the  seller 
puffs  his  cigar  and  tries  to  look  unconcerned;  or  a 
third  price  is  agreed  upon  and  the  bargain  closed  by 
shaking  hands  upon  it.  The  striking  of  palms  as 
each  price  is  named  is  done  most  emphatically,  and 
echoes  all  over  the  market-place;  but  the  final  shake 
is  short  and  sharp. 

That  morning  there  was  one  old  man  for  whom 
our  hearts  ached.  What  was  the  matter  with  his 
cheese  I  do  not  know ;  but  buyer  after  buyer  thumped 
it  and  sampled  it  and  then  turned  away  with  a  shrug 
more  eloquent  than  words.  Finally  this  treatment  got 
on  the  old  man's  nerves,  and  he  explained  excitedly 
to  the  by-standers  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  his  cheese;  that  it  was  as  good  as  any  in 


THE    ALKMAAR    CHEESE-MARKET   OPENS. 


TESTING    THE   CHEESE. 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          217 

Alkmaar;  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy, 
and  a  great  deal  more  of  which  we  could  not  catch 
the  drift.  We  grew  ashamed  of  watching  him,  after 
a  while,  he  was  so  visibly  perturbed;  but  we  returned 
from  time  to  time  to  see  how  he  fared,  and  at  last 
our  hearts  were  cheered  by  seeing  him  effect  a  sale. 
I  wish  we  could  have  told  him  how  glad  we  were! 

As  soon  as  the  cheese  is  sold,  it  is  piled  on  the 
barrows  by  the  white-clad  porters  and  hustled  off  to 
the  weigh-house,  where  the  scales  have  been  carefully 
adjusted  by  an  official  in  a  top-hat.  These  barrows 
are  really  nothing  but  long  crates  with  a  platform  in 
the  centre  and  curved  handles  at  either  end,  each  of 
them  holding  from  sixty  to  eighty  cheeses.  Upon 
these  the  cheeses  are  piled  like  cannon-balls,  and  then 
two  porters  slip  over  the  handles  the  ends  of  a  looped 
rope  hanging  from  their  shoulders,  and  shuffle  off 
to  the  scales  with  their  burden,  shouting  for  everyone 
to  look  out  for  his  legs. 

The  queer  shuffle  with  which  they  move,  half  run 
and  half  walk,  is  doubtless  the  evolution  of  long  ex- 
perience and  no  little  practice.  It  is  necessary  that 
they  move  absolutely  in  rhythm,  for  the  crate  swings 
freely  at  the  end  of  the  long  loops,  and  when  its 
bearers  get  out  of  step,  it  suffers  a  convulsion  like 
a  small  boat  on  a  stormy  sea,  and  not  infrequently  its 
contents  is  sent  rolling  across  the  pavement  in  a  golden 
flood. 

These  cheese-carriers  are,  I  understand,  elected  for 
life  by  the  community,  and  though  the  work  is  hard 


218  The  Spell  of  Holland 

and  the  wages  small,  the  position  is  considered  a  good 
one  I  noticed  that  most  of  the  carriers  are  well 
along  in  years,  and  I  wondered  how  some  of  them, 
more  frail-looking  than  the  rest,  could  stand  the  heavy 
labour,  which  lasts,  practically  without  stopping,  until 
nightfall.  One  old  pair  in  particular  caught  my  eye, 
and  I  managed  to  get  a  picture  of  them  just  as  they 
were  taking  a  crate  of  cheese  off  the  scales;  they 
were  more  picturesque  than  most  of  the  others,  and, 
in  spite  of  their  age,  were  apparently  just  as  lively 
after  three  or  four  hours  of  this  work  as  they  had 
been  at  the  beginning. 

As  soon  as  the  cheese  is  weighed,  it  is  carried,  still 
on  the  crates,  to  the  water-side  and  reloaded  into  the 
waiting  barges.  The  loading  is  done  by  rolling  the 
cheeses  down  a  long  wooden  trough  into  the  vessel's 
hold,  where  they  are  caught  by  a  couple  of  men  and 
carefully  placed  on  the  crates  prepared  for  them,  so 
that  they  do  not  touch  each  other  and  the  air  can 
circulate  freely  around  them.  Most  of  them  will  not 
be  placed  on  the  market  again  for  months,  but  will 
be  piled  on  racks  in  the  jobber's  warehouse  to  ripen. 
For  the  cheese,  as  it  comes  from  the  factory  is,  of 
course,  green  and  soft,  and  is  not  esteemed  by  con- 
noisseurs until  it  has  dried  out  and  hardened.  Indeed, 
the  astute  farmer  sells  it  as  soon  as  possible  after 
he  has  made  it,  because  the  greener  it  is  the  more  it 
weighs.  As  it  ages,  it  shrinks  and  grows  lighter 
through  evaporation.  Perhaps  it  is  to  ascertain  the 
amount  of  water  in  it  that  all  that  thumping  is  done. 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          219 

The  ripening  process  is,  in  itself,  an  art,  for  if 
the  warehouse  is  too  warm,  the  cheese  loses  some  of 
its  flavour  in  too-rapid  evaporation,  and  if  it  is  too 
cold,  the  cheese  moulds.  Hence  a  certain  tempera- 
ture must  be  preserved,  and  I  suppose  each  warehouse- 
man has  his  own  secrets  to  aid  in  bringing  forth 
perfect  cheese.  We  stopped  in  to  see  one  of  these 
warehouses  near  the  market-place  —  a  lofty  building, 
well- ventilated,  with  racks  running  clear  to  the  roof, 
filled  with  I  know  not  how  many  thousands  of  cheeses. 
Let  me  add  that  this  Edam  cheese  —  the  veritable 
article  —  is  made  throughout  North  Holland,  and 
there  are  several  other  places  in  the  province  where 
it  is  marketed,  but  none  of  them  can  vie  with  Alkmaar 
in  importance.  Alkmaar,  indeed,  handles  half  the 
product  of  the  whole  province.  Also,  Edam  cheese 
is  imitated  throughout  the  world  —  nowhere  more 
successfully  than  here  in  America. 

The  weighing  begins  at  half-past  ten,  and  at  eleven 
the  cheese  made  at  private  dairies  is  ready  for  sale. 
It  is  this  which  has  been  brought  to  the  market  in 
the  high,  gayly-painted  wagons,  which  have  been  un- 
loaded while  the  chaffering  for  the  factory  cheese  was 
in  progress.  The  difference  between  the  two  is  appar- 
ent even  to  a  tyro.  The  home-made  cheeses  are  larger 
than  the  others,  being  ten  or  eleven  inches  in  diame- 
ter; they  have  not  been  coloured  red  or  yellow  and 
are  not  greased,  so  that  they  look  just  as  they  did 
when  they  came  from  the  press  in  the  great  back- 
room of  the  farmer's  house,  except,  of  course,  that 


220  The  Spell  of  Holland 

a  thin  rind  has  formed  around  them.  It  is  finer 
cheese  than  the  other;  it  is,  in  fact,  the  product  upon 
which  the  farmer  and  his  wife  particularly  pride 
themselves,  and  it  is  as  nearly  perfect  as  cheese  can 
be.  In  consequence,  it  commands  a  higher  price,  and, 
I  imagine,  very  little  of  it  is  exported,  for  the  Dutch 
are  as  fond  of  good  things  as  any  one.  I  have  never 
seen  any  in  this  country,  though  the  factory-made 
Edam  cheese,  or  an  imitation  of  it,  is  common  enough. 

There  was  another  difference.  The  buyers  handled 
it  more  respectfully  and  seemed  more  easily  satisfied 
as  to  its  quality  than  in  the  case  of  the  factory  cheese. 
And  I  can  well  believe  that  each  of  those  solid,  nice- 
looking,  prosperous  old  Dutch  farmers  had  a  reputa- 
tion to  sustain  and  would  have  scorned  to  bring  any 
cheese  to  market  which  was  not  worthy  of  himself 
and  his  father  and  his  grandfather.  At  any  rate, 
here  the  bargaining  was  soon  concluded,  and  as  it 
was  now  noon,  with  the  carillon  playing  a  more 
than  usually  elaborate  melody,  everybody  but  the 
porters  and  weighmasters  adjourned  to  the  numer- 
ous restaurants  around  the  square  to  get  something 
to  eat. 

It  was  a  good-natured  throng  and  an  interesting 
one,  though  there  were  few  distinctive  costumes  - 
certainly  none  to  match  those  of  Zeeland  or  Friesland. 
Most  of  the  men  wore  clothing  of  a  cut  and  shape 
not  unlike  my  own,  but  the  material  of  which  it  was 
made  looked  heavy  and  durable  as  iron,  and  was 
almost  always  black.  Practically  all  of  them  wore 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          221 

cloth  caps.  The  women  wore  what  would  have 
seemed  a  superabundance  of  skirts  in  America,  but 
their  figures  were  slim  compared  with  those  of  the 
good  wives  of  Scheveningen  and  Volendam.  Only 
a  few  of  them  wore  caps,  and  these  were  compara- 
tively simple,  and  in  every  case  were  topped  by  a 
modern  hat  lavishly  decorated  with  artificial  flowers. 
Wooden  shoes  were  confined  to  the  urchins  clattering 
about  the  streets.  From  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
Alkmaar  and  its  neighbourhood  has  caught  much  of 
the  modern  commercial  spirit  of  Amsterdam  and 
Rotterdam,  before  which  old  customs  crumble  and 
fade  away.  It  needed,  however,  but  a  single  glance 
to  see  that  these  people  were  well-to-do,  if  not  actually 
rich.  There  was  an  air  of  solid  prosperity  about 
them  not  to  be  mistaken. 

The  streets  of  Alkmaar  have  also  caught  the  modern 
spirit  and  are  neither  picturesque  nor  interesting,  and, 
besides  the  cheese-market,  there  are  only  two  things 
worth  seeing  —  the  stadhuis  and  the  Groote  Kerk. 
The  latter  is  especially  noteworthy.  As  one  ap- 
proaches it  from  the  town,  it  looks  unusually  huge, 
although  it  has  no  tower,  and  a  closer  inspection  con- 
firms this  impression.  One  wonders  at  the  number 
of  brick  which  must  have  been  used  in  its  construc- 
tion; but  there  is  the  same  cause  for  wonder  all 
over  Holland.  For  brick,  brick,  brick  are  every- 
where —  overhead  and  underfoot,  on  edge  in  the  road- 
ways and  piled  into  great  walls  and  massive  towers. 
It  would  almost  seem  that  the  Dutch  had  dug  away 


222  The  Spell  of  Holland 

most  of  the  ground  beneath  their  feet  in  order  to 
convert  it  into  building  material! 

At  one  side  of  the  church  is  a  shady  square,  sur- 
rounded by  clean  little  houses,  in  one  of  which  the 
koster  dwells  —  a  handsome  old  man  who  delights 
to  show  his  church,  and  who  has  picked  up  a  smat- 
tering of  English  from  his  many  visitors.  Inside, 
the  church  is  whitewashed  from  floor  to  vaulting; 
and  there  is  the  usual  huge  organ  at  the  west  end, 
the  elaborately-carved  pulpit  against  one  of  the  pil- 
lars of  the  nave,  with  the  huddled  pews  about  it.  This 
pulpit  is  unusually  handsome,  with  its  carved  lions 
and  pelicans,  and  the  castle  which  is  a  part  of  the 
arms  of  Alkmaar;  but  the  most  interesting  things  in 
the  church  are  the  few  survivals  of  its  Catholic  period. 

Near  the  organ  is  a  quaint  painting  by  one  Csesar 
van  Everdingen,  a  local  artist,  whose  ideas  were  evi- 
dently quite  beyond  his  powers  of  execution.  In  this 
he  has  chosen  to  represent  the  Seven  Works  of  Mercy, 
one  section  for  each  "  work."  The  picture  dates  from 
1507,  and  is  a  curious  commentary  upon  the  state  of 
art  in  North  Holland  at  that  period.  In  the  choir 
there  still  remain  some  of  the  old  renaissance  choir- 
stalls,  with  interesting  carving,  and  a  tomb  supposed 
to  contain  the  entrails  of  Floris  the  Fifth,  Count  of 
Holland,  who  died  in  1296.  As  the  church,  which 
was  originally  dedicated  to  Saint  Laurence,  was  not 
built  until  two  centuries  later,  one  wonders  where  the 
entrails  were  kept  in  the  interim. 

But  to  me  the  most  absorbing  feature  of  the  church 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          223 

was  its  pavement,  which  is  composed  almost  entirely 
of  curiously  carved  grave-slabs,  excellently  preserved. 
When  the  occupant  of  the  grave  happened  to  be  noble, 
his  coat  of  arms  was  cut  upon  the  slab,  usually  in 
very  high  relief  and  admirably  done.  When  he  was 
not  noble,  simply  his  name  was  given,  with  the  dates 
of  birth  and  death,  and  then  a  device  to  illustrate 
the  name. 

Thus,  Jan  Varken  is  distinguished  by  a  pig  with  a 
curly  tail,  for  in  Dutch  "  varken "  means  pig,  and 
is,  of  course,  distantly  related  to  our  own  "  pork." 
Jacob  Peereboom  is  indicated  by  a  pear-tree,  "  boom  " 
meaning  tree.  The  tomb  of  Pieter  Klaverway  is 
decorated  with  a  clover-leaf,  and  here  it  will  be  seen 
how  nearly,  sometimes,  the  Dutch  language  resembles 
our  own.  Jacob  Kniper  is  indicated  by  a  cooper's 
tool,  and  Jan  Dircksz  Molenaer  by  an  elaborate  wind- 
mill, for  "molenaer  "  is  the  Dutch  for  "  miller."  The 
engraver  of  the  tombstone  of  Cornelius  Plaat  seems 
to  have  been  up  against  it,  and  contented  himself 
with  a  simple  rectangle,  which  certainly  looks  little 
enough  like  a  plate;  while  the  slab  which  covers 
Dirck  Groenbroeck  is  ornamented  with  a  pair  of 
voluminous  breeches  with  his  name  across  the  seat. 
I  can  think  of  only  one  explanation  of  these  carvings : 
that  they  were  intended  to  enable  people  who  could 
not  read  to  identify  the  occupant  of  the  grave  beneath. 

We  bade  good-bye  to  the  koster,  at  last,  and  took 
a  look  at  the  stadhuis,  which  dates  from  about  the 
same  period  as  the  church,  and  whose  graceful  Gothic 


224  The  Spell  of  Holland 

tower  has  fortunately  been  preserved.  There  is  a 
municipal  museum  inside,  but  it  contains  little  of 
interest  except  to  the  antiquarian.  One  of  its  prized 
possessions  is  a  picture  of  the  siege  of  Alkmaar,  de- 
picting, with  much  detail,  a  peculiarly  frenzied  mo- 
ment of  that  memorable  event. 

As  we  walked  back  through  those  clean  and  peace- 
ful streets,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  that  they  had 
ever  witnessed  such  scenes;  and  that  the  ancestors 
of  the  stolid  burghers  who  now  trod  them  had  defied 
and  held  back  and  finally  defeated  sixteen  thousand 
Spanish  regulars,  under  command  of  Don  Frederic, 
son  of  the  redoubtable  Alva,  and  fresh  from  the  cap- 
ture of  Haarlem.  There  were,  within  the  city,  only 
thirteen  hundred  burghers  capable  of  bearings  arms, 
besides  a  garrison  of  eight  hundred  soldiers,  or  a 
total  of  about  two  thousand  to  oppose  the  Spanish 
legions.  Summoned  to  surrender,  they  refused;  and 
the  Spanish  troops  were  drawn  so  closely  about  the 
city,  that,  as  Alva  said,  "  it  was  impossible  for  a 
sparrow  to  enter  or  go  out."  Nor  did  he  leave  the 
city's  defenders  in  doubt  as  to  the  fate  awaiting  them. 
"  If  I  take  Alkmaar,"  Alva  wrote  to  his  royal  master, 
"  I  am  resolved  not  to  leave  a  single  creature  alive. 
The  knife  shall  be  put  to  every  throat."  He  had 
already  proved,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  how 
capable  he  was  of  carrying  out  the  threat.  But  he 
was  not  to  take  Alkmaar. 

The  siege  lasted  seven  weeks,  during  which  assault 
after  assault  was  repulsed  with  a  fury  equalling  the 


The  City  of  Ripened  Curds          225 

Spaniards'  own;  for  whole  days  the  town  was  sub- 
jected to  steady  cannonading;  gaunt  famine  stalked 
through  the  streets;  but  there  was  no  thought  of  sur- 
render. At  last  the  Prince  of  Orange  determined  to 
cut  the  dykes  and  flood  the  country  —  "  better  a  sub- 
merged land  than  a  lost  one,"  he  said  —  but  the 
message  announcing  this  decision  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy,  and  terror-stricken  at  the  fate  which 
threatened  them,  the  Spaniards  raised  the  siege  and 
made  off,  under  cover  of  darkness,  to  Amsterdam. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  a  Dutch  town  had  been 
able  to  stand  against  them. 

Mid-afternoon  had  come,  but  as  we  crossed  the 
market-place  again,  we  found  the  white-clad  porters 
still  shuffling  with  their  loaded  barrows  to  the  scales 
and  from  them  to  the  boats  drawn  up  along  the  quay. 
In  spite  of  their  hours  of  labour,  they  had  made  no 
very  considerable  impression  upon  the  great  golden 
piles  which  lay  athwart  the  pavement,  and  I  won- 
dered if  they  would  be  done  by  nightfall. 

In  the  street  just  beyond,  the  farmers  and  their 
families  were  preparing  to  return  home.  Handsome 
Flemish  horses,  their  harness  glittering  with  burnished 
metal  and  sometimes  jingling  with  little  bells,  were 
being  hitched  to  the  high-beamed  wagons,  or  to  shin- 
ing cape-topped  Tilburys,  elaborately  carved  and  orna- 
mented, in  which  mevrouw  and  the  children  had 
already  bestowed  themselves;  the  former  a  strong, 
well-built  and  capable-looking  woman,  the  latter  red- 
cheeked  cherubs  with  bright  eyes  peeping  at  us  shyly 


226  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

and  ever-ready  smiles  upon  their  lips.  Indeed,  old 
and  young  alike  nodded  and  smiled  to  us  as  we  passed. 
We  found  the  train  crowded  with  buyers  and  their 
clerks  on  their  way  back  to  Amsterdam.  The  ones 
in  our  compartment  passed  the  time  with  a  lively  card- 
game,  which  one  of  them  told  me  is  called  "  pondear." 
I  have  looked  in  vain  in  Hoyle  for  some  description 
of  it;  and  though  I  watched  them  for  a  long  time, 
I  could  catch  not  the  faintest  glimmer  of  its  princi- 
ples. I  turned,  at  last,  to  look  out  upon  the  quiet 
landscape,  with  its  dark-green  fields  and  lanes  of 
shimmering  water  and  tree-bordered  roads;  and  so, 
in  the  first  dusk  of  twilight,  the  train  rumbled  under 
the  echoing  shed  of  the  great  station  at  Amsterdam 
and  came  creaking  to  a  stop. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE    ISLAND   OF    MARKEN,    LIMITED 

THERE  is  one  excursion  from  Amsterdam  which 
every  tourist  party  takes,  and  that  is  the  little  trip 
to  Marken  and  Volendam,  its  ostensible  object  being 
to  give  the  members  of  those  parties  a  glimpse  of 
"  real  Holland,"  as  distinguished  from  the  Holland 
of  Amsterdam,  Rotterdam,  and  The  Hague.  The 
excursion,  therefore,  has  a  great  disadvantage  for  the 
leisurely  traveller  in  that  he  is  apt  to  be  crowded 
and  to  be  compelled  to  listen  to  silly  comment  and 
foolish  question;  and  there  may  also  be  some  doubt 
as  to  whether  a  place  maintained  for  show,  as  Marken 
is,  and  where  the  inhabitants  are  so  rapacious  and 
un-Dutch,  is  really  worth  seeing. 

However,  we  decided  to  risk  it,  and  rose  bright 
and  early  that  Sunday  morning,  in  order  to  get  started 
before  the  tourist  parties  were  abroad;  also  in  order 
to  have  time  to  see  the  island  properly.  Sunday  is, 
of  course,  the  best  day  to  make  the  trip  because  the 
fishermen  are  all  at  home  that  day,  and  everybody 
has  on  his  best  and  brightest  costume.  It  is  also 
the  worst  day;  for  the  children  are  not  at  school, 
and  so  at  liberty  to  make  the  visitor's  life  a  burden 

227 


228 The  Spell  of  Holland 

to  him.  But  I  believe  they  dismiss  school  at  Marken 
whenever  a  tourist  arrives. 

It  was  raining  when  we  started,  but  the  sky  soon 
cleared  and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  perfect.  We 
ferried  across  the  Ij  to  the  Tolhuis  —  toll-house  or 
custom-house  —  and  there  caught  the  steam-tram  for 
Monnikendam,  relieved  to  find  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  party  of  Dutchmen  in  rigid  black  going 
to  a  funeral,  we  were  the  only  passengers.  We  got 
into  a  "  Neit  Rooken  "  carriage ;  but  the  conductor 
saw  my  hand  straying  toward  the  pocket  from  which 
some  cigars  protruded,  and  laughed  and  told  me  to 
go  ahead  and  smoke,  if  I  wanted  to.  A  notice  in 
the  car  read,  "  Passengers  are  kindly  requested  not 
to  scatter  money,"  so  I  didn't  offer  him  a  tip,  but 
he  looked  as  though  he  enjoyed  the  cigar  I  gave  him. 
It  was  an  expensive  one,  costing  two  cents. 

These  Dutch  are  certainly  economical.  On  the 
engines  drawing  the  steam-trams  there  is  only  one 
man,  who  acts  as  engineer  and  fireman  both;  and, 
at  odd  moments,  rings  the  engine-bell  with  one  hand 
and  eats  his  lunch  with  the  other.  And  this  on  a 
railway  managed  by  the  state! 

We  ran  along  between  little  canals,  frightening  the 
frogs  into  the  water,  and  scaring  up  a  heron  now 
and  then,  and  soon  came  to  Broek.  It  is  a  town  of 
gayly-painted  houses,  each  with  its  little  moat  and 
bridge  —  a  sort  of  toy-town,  with  a  reputation  for 
exaggerated  cleanliness  which,  I  fear,  it  no  longer 
deserves.  At  least  it  seems  sadly  changed  from  the 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited       229 

day  M.  de  Amicis  trembled  to  drop  a  cigar-ash  in 
its  street.  We  saw  no  costumes,  or  only  the  usual 
Sunday  one  for  men  of  heavy  black,  though  there 
were  a  few  women  with  caps  on  and  be-flowered  hats 
perched  above  them. 

On  we  went  again,  past  more  canals,  with  many 
fishermen  sitting  patiently  waiting  for  a  bite,  and  par- 
ties of  others  —  clubs,  I  suppose,  with  the  usual 
elaborate  paraphernalia  —  tramping  across  the  fields 
to  a  good  place.  Farmers,  more  religiously  inclined, 
were  driving  to  church  with  their  families,  in  high, 
brightly-varnished  Tilburys,  with  the  horse  a  long 
way  in  front. 

And  so  we  came  to  Monnikendam,  so  called  because 
this  dam  was  built  by  the  "  monnikens,"  or  monks, 
—  a  quaint  old  town  with  a  church  big  enough  to 
hold  the  population  twice  over  —  a  church  built  in 
the  days  of  the  town's  prosperity,  and  now  unused 
save  for  a  portion  of  the  nave.  The  avenue  of  tall 
trees  around  it  gives  it  a  setting  of  more  than  usual 
beauty. 

The  town's  coat-of-arms  is  reminiscent  of  its  origin, 
for  it  shows  a  Franciscan  monk  in  black  habit,  hold- 
ing a  mace.  Certainly  there  is  little  else  about  the 
place  to  remind  one  of  those  brave  old  days  when 
it  was  one  of  the  great  towns  of  Holland,  and  could 
fit  out  a  fleet  to  fight  —  and  defeat  —  the  Spaniards. 

It  was  at  Monnikendam  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  Emanuel  Leuw,  an  urchin  of  about  eight. 
Emanuel  had  arisen  early  that  morning,  for  the 


230  The  Spell  of  Holland 

tourist  was  his  prey,  and  Sunday  the  day  when  the 
harvest  was  richest.  He  greeted  us  before  we  had 
time  to  step  foot  to  earth,  and  intimated  that  he  was 
a  collector  of  rare  coins,  and  would  be  glad  to  receive 
any  American  or  English  or  Hindustanee  money  we 
might  have  with  us. 

We  informed  Emanuel  that,  before  entering  his 
interesting  country,  we  had  changed  our  foreign  coin 
into  gulden  and  dubbletjes. 

Not  cast  down,  he  told  us  that  he  was  also  a  con- 
noisseur of  postage  stamps,  and  would  be  glad  to 
have  any  foreign  stamps  we  might  have  on  our 
persons. 

We  expressed  regret  that  we  had  not  had  the  fore- 
sight to  bring  some  American  stamps  with  us. 

"  But  you  will  return  some  day  to  America,"  said 
Emanuel,  who  spoke  English  very  well. 

"Yes,"  I  said;    "we  hope  to." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  then  send  me  some." 

"Why,  of  course  we  will!"  cried  Betty.  "What 
is  your  name?  " 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  his  grave  little  face  beam- 
ing, and  he  drew  from  a  pocket-book  a  slip  of  paper 
on  which  his  name  and  address  were  written,  in  readi- 
ness for  just  such  an  emergency.  A  boy  like  that 
will  make  his  mark,  some  day! 

Betty  sent  him  a  package  of  stamps,  after  we  got 
home ;  and  in  due  time  a  letter  came  from  him,  thank- 
ing her  prettily.  "  I  hope  you  will  come  soon  in 
Holland  again,"  the  letter  continues,  "  and  shall  meet 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      231 

you  in  our  town  of  Monnikendam.  I  will  show  you 
also  the  curiosities,  the  interieur  of  the  church,  the 
towns-hall  with  the  monnik  in  top  and  the  celebrated 
tower  with  the  horses."  Perhaps  —  who  knows? 

While  this  conference  was  in  progress,  a  number 
of  people  had  gathered  about  us,  among  whom  was 
the  town's  solitary  policeman.  When  they  learned 
that  we  were  bound  for  Marken,  they  set  off  in  a  body 
to  show  us  the  way  to  the  boat,  the  policeman  in 
advance.  It  was  almost  an  escort  of  honour!  Half- 
way down  a  narrow  little  lane,  we  saw  a  strange 
figure  approaching  us  —  a  man  wearing  the  most 
remarkable  nether  garments  I  had  even  seen  on  a 
human  being.  They  came  just  below  the  knee,  where 
they  were  tightly  buckled,  and  they  flared  out  fully  a 
foot  at  each  side,  so  that,  from  the  knees  to  the  waist, 
they  formed  an  almost  perfect  circle  about  three  feet 
in  diameter.  He  wore  a  tight-fitting  coat,  buttoned 
at  the  side,  with  a  double  row  of  buttons  down  the 
front,  and  large  gilt  buttons  at  the  belt;  and  the 
extreme  tightness  of  the  upper  garment  served  to 
accentuate  the  looseness  of  the  lower  one. 

It  was  the  skipper  of  the  boat  for  Marken,  wearing, 
naturally,  the  costume  of  the  island.  One  gets  more 
or  less  accustomed  to  it,  after  awhile,  but  I  shall  never 
forget  the  shock  the  first  sight  of  it  gave  me. 

The  skipper  stopped  when  he  saw  us,  and  turned 
back,  and  escorted  us  on  board  the  boat,  which,  as 
a  compliment  to  the  frequent  American  tourist,  is 
named  "  President  Roosevelt."  The  fact  that  he  is 


232  The  Spell  of  Holland 

no  longer  president  has  not  yet  penetrated  to  Marken, 
where  his  deeds  still  reverberate.  We  were  the  only 
passengers,  and  the  boat  was  soon  puffing  across  the 
little  bay  toward  a  dark  spot  on  the  horizon,  which 
gradually  resolved  itself  into  the  groups  of  houses 
which  constitute  the  Marken  villages.  The  harbour 
was  filled  with  scores  of  fishing-boats,  tucked  like 
sardines  behind  the  breakwater,  each  with  its  stiff 
little  pennant  fluttering,  and  with  brown  nets  hoisted 
up  to  the  mastheads  to  dry.  How  they  ever  got  the 
boats  packed  in  that  way  was  a  mystery;  how  they 
were  going  to  get  them  out  again  was  another. 

Evidently  no  tourists  were  expected  by  the  early 
boat,  for  there  was  no  one  to  receive  us  except  two 
or  three  dour-looking  fishermen,  wearing  the  same 
ridiculous  costume  as  our  captain.  The  latter,  how- 
ever, with  an  eye  to  business,  led  us  at  once  to  his 
father's  house,  and  introduced  us  to  his  sister,  who 
seemed  to  be  there  alone.  The  other  members  of 
the  family,  I  judge,  had  gone  to  church.  Then  the 
captain  left  us,  and  the  sister  proceeded  to  show  us 
the  house,  which  visitors  to  the  island  are  led  to 
believe  is  a  typical  one.  I  should  like  to  believe  so, 
too;  but  I  fear  it  is  got  up  solely  with  an  eye  to 
the  tourist  traffic. 

It  looks  more  like  a  museum  than  a  house,  with 
its  old  furniture,  and  embroidered  hangings,  the  walls 
covered  with  many-coloured  plates,  and  every  pro- 
jection crowded  with  every  variety  of  curio  —  Chinese 
cups  and  saucers,  goblets,  ostrich  eggs,  little  ships  of 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      233 

spun  glass,  Dresden  statuettes,  vases  of  every  size 
and  shape,  porcelain  dogs  and  cats  with  heads  that 
shake  and  tails  that  wag  —  a  confusion  of  objects 
which  baffles  description.  All  the  Dutch  have  more 
or  less  this  habit  of  filling  their  houses  with  useless 
and  ugly  bric-a-brac,  for  piling  object  upon  object; 
but  here  in  this  show-room  at  Marken,  this  foolish- 
ness has  become  insanity. 

Two  cupboard-beds  are  also  shown,  built  into  the 
walls,  with  figured  curtains  in  front  of  them  and 
embroidered  pillows  heaped  high  within.  A  lot  of 
old  brass  and  pewter  occupied  odd  corners  on  the 
floor,  so  that  one  moved  about  with  difficulty.  I  have 
heard  it  stated  that  none  of  this  bric-a-brac  is  for 
sale ;  I  don't  know,  for  we  tried  to  buy  nothing  but 
some  post-cards,  of  which  the  skipper's  sister  had  a 
large  assortment. 

She  was  a  lanky  girl,  not  particularly  pretty,  but 
she  wore  the  costume  of  the  island,  which  is  the  same 
for  all  females,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  and 
which  I  suppose  I  must  try  to  describe.  Let  us  begin 
with  the  head.  The  cap  is  in  five  pieces,  put  on  one 
over  the  other,  the  outer  one  being  elaborately  em- 
broidered in  red,  and  covered  on  week-days  by  another 
of  white  chintz,  also  embroidered.  The  hair  is 
brought  forward  over  the  forehead,  cut  off  square 
and  then  turned  up  into  a  stiff  little  bang,  very  comi- 
cal. From  under  the  cap,  on  each  side  of  the  face, 
a  long  curl  falls  in  front  of  either  shoulder.  These 
are  natural  when  the  woman  is  young;  but  when  she 


234  The  Spell  of  Holland 

gets  old,  false  hair  is  substituted,  so  that  the  curls 
are  always  blond  or  brown,  whatever  the  age  of  the 
wearer. 

The  waist  is  also  elaborately  embroidered  in  green 
and  yellow  and  different  shades  of  red,  and  is  handed 
down  from  mother  to  daughter,  for  one  of  these 
waists  takes  many  years  to  make.  Its  sleeves  come 
about  half-way  down  the  arm,  and  are  striped  red 
and  white.  From  these,  undersleeves  of  dark  blue 
cloth  extend  to  the  wrists.  The  skirts,  which  are  dark, 
and  sometimes  striped,  are  most  voluminous,  and  over 
them  is  commonly  worn  an  apron  of  lighter  stuff 
with  an  embroidered  inset  across  the  top.  Black  or 
blue  knit  stockings  and  wooden  shoes  complete  the 
costume,  which,  in  its  effect,  is  barbaric  rather  than 
beautiful. 

But  there  is  nothing  about  it  as  startling  as  the 
garments  with  which  the  male  portion  of  the  popula- 
tion covers  its  legs.  I  have  already  referred  to  the 
skipper's,  and  I  have  wondered  vainly  how  garments 
so  absurd  came  to  be  devised.  Their  absurdity,  in- 
deed, reaches  a  height  so  great  that  one  stares  at 
them  in  incredulous  wonder,  scarcely  able  to  believe 
one's  eyes.  Some  of  the  smaller  girls  wear  trousers 
like  the  boys,  and  then  the  sex  of  the  wearer  can 
only  be  determined  by  the  embroidered  cap  and  waist. 
The  boys  usually  wear  little  dark  cloth  caps  with 
patent-leather  visors,  but  no  girl,  however  small,  ap- 
pears in  public  without  the  full  panoply  of  the  woman's 
head-dress,  curls  and  all.  In  the  photograph  oppo- 


CHILDREN    AT   MARKEN,    FRONT   VIEW. 


CHILDREN    AT   MARKEN,    REAR    VIEW. 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited       235 

site  this  page,  it  will  be  seen  that  some  of  the  girls 
are  wearing  trousers. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  skipper's  house,  a  little  old 
woman  like  a  grasshopper  held  us  up  and  insisted 
that  we  visit  her  house,  also.  We  did,  and  met  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  were  shown  about  the  place, 
which  I  imagine  to  be  more  typical  of  the  island  than 
the  first  we  had  seen.  There  were  still  some  plates 
on  the  walls  and  some  bric-a-brac  cluttered  about,  but, 
in  spite  of  this,  the  effect  was  that  of  bare  poverty. 
It  was  curious  to  look  up  right  to  the  towering  roof. 
For  these  houses  are  built  all  in  one  room,  and  then 
divided  by  partitions  without  ceilings,  so  that  over- 
head is  a  dim  vastness  in  which  fishing-nets  and  other 
indistinguishable  things  are  suspended.  One  wonders 
how  such  a  house  can  be  warmed  in  winter,  and  I 
guess  the  answer  is  that  it  isn't. 

These  women  were  particularly  proud  of  their 
wardrobe,  and  got  out  many  boxes  filled  with  em- 
broidered things  to  show  us.  They  also  showed  us 
how  they  iron.  The  article  to  be  ironed  is  wrapped 
about  a  round  piece  of  wood,  and  then  is  rolled  back 
and  forth  on  a  board  by  means  of  a  flat  piece  of 
wood,  or  mangle,  the  operator  pressing  down  with 
all  her  strength.  We  saw  a  lot  of  these  mangles 
afterwards,  in  antique  shops,  but  we  should  never 
have  known  what  they  were  but  for  this  demonstra- 
tion at  Marken.  Then  the  old  woman  posed  for  her 
picture,  and  then  we  tipped  them  both  and  went  away. 

That  is  the  secret  of  this  island's  existence.     All 


236  The  Spell  of  Holland 

is  fish  that  comes  to  its  net  —  in  winter  the  fish  have 
fins  and  come  from  the  sea;  in  summer  they  have 
legs  and  come  mostly  from  America.  And  tips  of 
copper  are  disdained.  They  must  be  of  silver,  or 
the  tipper  is  treated  to  black  looks  and  sometimes  to 
black  words.  The  children  are  taught  to  beg,  and 
are  very  expert  in  annoying  the  stranger  until  he 
tosses  them  some  money  in  self-defence.  So  a  visit 
to  the  island  is  apt  to  grate  upon  nervous  people;  and 
all  such  I  should  advise  to  stay  away.  Others  should 
remember  that  this  begging  is  a  trade,  and  to  respond 
to  it  is  simply  to  encourage  it. 

Though  a  small  island,  and  with  most  of  its  sur- 
face lower  than  the  Zuyder  Zee,  which  is  kept  back 
by  a  dyke,  Marken  has  seven  hamlets,  all  of  them 
on  artificial  mounds,  built  of  earth  brought  from  the 
mainland.  Six  of  these  mounds  are  crowded  with 
wooden  houses;  the  seventh  is  the  cemetery.  The 
principal  hamlet  is  the  one  which  clusters  around  the 
church  and  schoolhouse,  and  toward  it,  from  all  the 
others,  little  groups  of  people  were  wending  their 
way  for  the  morning  service.  We  thought  we  would 
go,  too,  until  we  learned  that  the  service  lasted  two 
hours.  So  we  walked  about  the  narrow  streets,  in- 
stead, amused  by  the  surveillance  of  the  island's  single 
policeman,  who  evidently  felt  doubly  responsible  since 
most  of  the  islanders  were  at  church.  The  houses 
are  of  wood,  painted  black  or  brown ;  one-storied  with 
towering  roofs  of  red  tiles;  and  huddled  so  closely 
together  that  the  passage-ways  between  them  are 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      237 

scarcely  wide  enough  for  two  to  walk  abreast.  Most 
of  them  seem  to  be  very  old;  though  occasionally 
a  fire  breaks  out  which  sweeps  through  the  hamlet 
before  it  can  be  subdued. 

The  villages  are  connected  with  each  other  by  little 
paved  ways;  but  in  winter,  the  sea  usually  breaks 
in,  so  that  the  only  means  of  communication  is  by 
boat,  until  the  water  freezes  over.  When  the  winter 
is  very  severe,  it  freezes  clear  to  the  mainland,  and 
this  stretch  of  ice  is  then  the  scene  of  a  great  fair, 
in  which  thousands  of  Amsterdammers  join.  Even 
with  the  distraction  of  that  gayety,  existence  here  in 
winter  must  be  about  as  comfortless  as  anywhere  on 
earth. 

We  strolled  about  from  one  hamlet  to  another  for 
more  than  an  hour,  the  centre  of  interest.  Once  we 
were  posing  some  children  for  a  photograph,  when 
their  mother  interfered  until  the  scale  of  remunera- 
tion had  been  agreed  upon ;  another  woman  also  look- 
ing for  a  tip,  beckoned  us  in  to  show  us  her  baby, 
five  or  six  months  old,  in  complete  costume,  even  to 
the  cap  and  apron.  Betty  had  me  photograph  her 
with  it  in  her  arms;  and  when  she  picked  it  up,  she 
found  it  even  had  stays  sewed  in  its  little  bodice.  A 
baby  in  corsets! 

We  stopped  at  a  restaurant  near  the  pier,  presently, 
to  get  a  lunch;  and  while  we  were  eating,  we  heard 
a  whistle,  and  crowds  of  children  began  to  hurry 
toward  the  wharf;  and  here  in  a  few  minutes  came 
streaming  a  big  "  personally  conducted  "  party,  with 


238  The  Spell  of  Holland 

the  uniformed  conductor  leading  the  way.  He  took 
them  to  the  captain's  house,  though  only  about  half 
of  them  were  able  even  to  peep  in,  blew  his  whistle 
to  bring  them  out,  hurried  them  over  to  the  church 
hamlet,  blew  his  whistle  again  to  tell  them  that  the 
time  was  up,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  they  had  seen 
Marken  and  were  ready  to  re-embark! 

So  were  we,  and  we  sailed  across  to  Volendam  in 
one  of  the  fishing-boats,  built  broad  and  low,  and 
with  a  great  red-brown  sail  and  jib.  It  is  only  a 
short  distance  to  Volendam,  which  is  scarcely  visible 
from  the  sea,  huddled  as  it  is  behind  its  dyke.  Here, 
too,  we  found  the  harbour  jammed  with  fishing-boats, 
and  a  crowd  of  children  ready  to  receive  us.  For 
Volendam  is  almost  as  much  of  a  show  place  as 
Marken. 

The  costume  is  also  very  striking.  I  like  the 
women's  caps,  especially,  with  their  little  wings  stick- 
ing out  on  either  side,  giving  a  coquettish  look  to 
the  gravest  face.  The  skirts  are  even  more  volu- 
minous than  at  Marken,  but  there  is  not  so  much 
embroidery.  The  nether  garments  worn  by  the  men 
are  also  very  redundant,  but  they  look  more  like 
trousers  and  less  like  bloomers  than  those  of  the 
Markeners  because  they  are  not  gathered  in  at  the 
knee.  What  I  cannot  understand  is  why  these  Dutch, 
an  economical  and  careful  people,  should  needlessly 
waste  in  one  pair  of  trousers  enough  cloth  to  clothe 
the  whole  family. 

A  bright-faced  urchin,  with  a  few  words  of  Eng- 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      239 

lish,   caught   on   to   us  almost  at  once,   and  was  so 
good-natured  and  anxious  to  go  along  that  we  had 
not  the  heart  to  send  him  away.     So  he  showed  us 
about  the  town,  and  the  conversation  between  Betty 
and  him  ran  something  like  this: 
"What  is  that  building?" 
"  Dat  de  school,  lady." 
"  Do  you  go  there?  " 
"No,  lady;    dat  de  girl  school." 
"And  yonder  is  the  church?" 
"Yes,  lady;   Catholic  — all  Catholic  here." 
"What  is  that  odour  in  the  air?" 
He  did  not  understand,  so  Betty  sniffed. 
"  Oh !  "  he  cried.     "  Brew  for  de  schnapps,  lady  ; 
brew  for  de  schnapps !  " 

"  You  a  nice  girl,"  he  volunteered,   after  awhile, 
having  got  his  hand  in  hers.     "  Dat  your  boy  ?  "  he 
went  on,  indicating  me. 
"  Yes." 

"  Him  a  nice  boy ! "  he  added,  with  conviction, 
though  I  am  at  a  loss  to  guess  upon  what  it  was 
founded.  "  You  like  my  picture  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Betty,  and  his  face  fell.     "  But  we  want 
the  pictures  of  some  of  these  pretty  girls." 
His  face  brightened. 

''  Yes,  yes,"  and  he  led  us  up  to  a  group  of  them. 

They   were   willing;    but    when   they    found   that 

Betty  wanted  to  pose  me  with  one  on  either  arm,  an 

unaccountable  shyness  developed.    I  suspect  they  were 

afraid  their  sweethearts  might  object.     In  fact,  I  re- 


240  The  Spell  of  Holland 

gret  to  say,  the  prettiest  girls  in  the  group  absolutely 
refused;  but  at  last  two,  of  decidedly  inferior  attrac- 
tiveness, were  found  who  were  willing  to  compromise 
themselves  —  for  a  consideration ;  and  the  picture  was 
taken,  while  an  interested  group,  with  our  little  guide 
in  the  foreground,  looked  on. 

The  houses  of  Volendam  are  of  wood,  like  those 
of  Marken,  usually  painted  red,  and  with  tiled  roofs. 
The  roofs  are  especially  in  evidence,  because  the 
favourite  promenade  is  along  the  top  of  the  dyke, 
high  above  the  houses.  Here,  on  Sundays,  the  fish- 
ermen congregate,  and  sit  squatted  on  their  heels, 
smoking  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  gazing  out  across 
the  water  without  exchanging  a  word.  The  men  of 
Volendam  are  said  to  smoke  more  and  talk  less  than 
any  others  in  Holland,  and  I  suppose  they  take  a 
certain  pride  in  living  up  to  this  difficult  reputation. 
Here  also  is  the  famous  Hotel  Spaander,  the  resort 
of  artists,  who  have  left  souvenirs  all  over  its  walls, 
and  many  pictures  in  part  settlement  of  account. 

At  last  we  were  ready  to  go  on  to  Edam,  about 
a  mile  away.  A  narrow  canal  leads  there  from 
Volendam,  and  along  this  a  little  trekschuit  runs, 
drawn  by  a  man  and  a  dog;  but  we  decided  to  walk, 
for  the  day  was  so  pleasant,  and  we  asked  our  guide 
to  set  us  upon  the  way.  He  did  so,  and  I  closed 
his  fist  about  a  dubbletje,  or  ten-cent  piece.  A  larger 
boy  who  had  been  following  along,  ran  up  to  see 
what  I  had  given  him. 

"  Too  much !  "  he  cried,  when  he  saw  the  minute 


c  .% 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      241 

coin,  about  as  large  as  one  of  our  old  silver  three- 
cent  pieces.  "  Too  much  for  little  boy !  " 

But  we  told  him  to  run  along  and  mind  his  own 
business,  and  bade  our  small  conductor  farewell.  I 
am  sure  he  was  sorry  to  see  us  go! 

That  was  a  pleasant  walk  along  the  narrow  tow- 
path,  paved  with  clinkers;  and  we  were  almost  sorry 
when  Edam  appeared  ahead,  with  its  enormous  Groote 
Kerk  looming  over  it.  We  got  into  the  town  across 
a  little  drawbridge,  and  met  a  procession  headed  by 
a  band  going  somewhere,  and  they  were  all  very 
jolly  and  waved  their  hands  at  us  and  cheered;  and 
then  we  went  on  along  the  clean  and  quiet  streets, 
and  inquired  the  way  to  the  church  of  a  woman  who 
didn't  seem  to  understand,  and  three  or  four  others 
ran  out  to  direct  us,  and  to  tell  us  not  to  blame  the 
woman  for  not  answering,  because  she  was  an  idiot; 
and  all  along  the  streets,  people  nodded  and  smiled 
at  us,  to  show  their  good-will;  and  we  nodded  and 
smiled  back,  to  show  ours. 

It  is  only  from  the  Groote  Kerk,  with  its  vast  in- 
terior, bare  and  depressing  save  for  a  little  old  stained 
glass  in  the  windows,  that  one  may  gain  an  idea  of 
the  ancient  importance  of  this  quiet  town.  But  Edam 
was  once  a  city  of  thirty  thousand,  one  of  the  five 
great  cities  of  Holland,  holding  the  key  to  Amsterdam 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Ij  (Ijdam  is  the  town's  real  name). 
But  times  change;  the  Zuyder  Zee  silted  up;  Am- 
sterdam cut  for  herself  a  water-way  straight  to  the 
ocean;  and  the  life-blood  of  commerce  ceased  to  flow 


242  The  Spell  of  Holland 

through  Edam's  streets.  Some  cheese  is  still  made 
in  the  neighbourhood  and  marketed  in  the  town;  the 
cow  on  her  coat-of-arms  pays  tribute  to  one  of  the 
sources  of  her  former  fame;  some  old  houses  with 
interesting  carvings  still  remain,  and  some  old  tales 
of  former  wonders  —  and  that  is  all. 

M.  Henri  Havard,  in  that  most  diverting  of  travel- 
books,  "  The  Dead  Cities  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,"  from 
which  so  many  later  ones  have  been  drawn  without 
credit  to  their  source,  described  one  of  these  reliefs 
which  we  did  not  have  the  good  fortune  to  see,  but 
which  I  am  going  to  hunt  up,  if  ever  again  I  visit 
Edam.  It  is  called  "  The  Fish  which  Everyone 
Likes."  A  fisherman  has  caught  in  his  net  a  hand- 
some young  woman,  and  a  soldier,  a  monk,  a  hunter, 
an  alchemist,  a  schoolmaster,  and  an  old  woman  each 
in  passing  pays  compliment  to  the  miraculous  draught 
in  a  Rabelaisian  couplet. 

The  stadhuis  is  not  in  itself  interesting;  but  in 
the  burgomeester's  room  the  portraits  of  four  ce- 
lebrities of  the  town  are  preserved :  Pieter  Dirksz, 
whose  beard  was  so  long  that  he  had  to  loop  it  up 
to  keep  it  out  of  the  mud;  Jan  Osterlyn,  who  sits 
between  his  son  and  daughter  pointing  proudly  to  a 
fleet  of  ninety-two  ships,  all  his  own,  and  painted 
in  painful  perspective;  Trijntje  Kevijr,  a  maiden 
whose  height,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  was  nine  feet, 
and  who  presumably  added  another  inch  or  two  before 
she  got  her  growth;  and  lastly  Jan  Cornelisson,  who, 
at  the  age  of  forty-two,  weighed  four  hundred  and 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      243 

fifty-two  pounds,  an  inn-keeper  who  was  his  inn's 
best  advertisement,  and  who  recognized  the  fact  by 
causing  this  portrait  to  be  painted  as  a  signboard. 
Trijntje's  shoes,  in  which  a  child  might  sit  and  paddle 
about  the  canals,  are  said  to  be  preserved  somewhere 
in  the  building,  but  for  some  reason  we  did  not  see 
them.  I  should  like  to  spend  some  days  at  Edam 
and  gain  further  information  about  these  remarkable 
personages.  Did  Trijnte  marry?  Did  Jan  Osterlyn 
die  poor? 

Exhausted  by  these  researches,  we  found  a  quiet 
little  inn  on  a  side  street,  with  a  dog  guarding  the 
front  door.  We  finally  persuaded  him  to  let  us  pass, 
and  after  wandering  about  the  house  for  a  time,  found 
the  proprietor  and  demanded  food.  He  seemed  un- 
certain, and  hastened  out  to  consult  with  someone; 
but  finally  came  back  and  said  we  could  have  soup. 

"And  tea?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  bread  and  butter?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"And  cheese?" 

"But  certainly;    there  was  always  cheese." 

"And  perhaps  cold  ham?" 

"  No  —  but  there  was  cold  veal."  ("  Kalfsvleesch  " 
is  the  word.) 

It  was  surprising  how  many  things  there  were, 
when  we  finally  got  them  all  out ;  and  how  good  they 
tasted,  as  we  sat  there  and  ate  and  gazed  out  at 
the  quiet  canal.  And  the  inn-keeper  came  and  sat 


244  The  Spell  of  Holland 

down,  after  awhile,  when  he  saw  we  were  willing 
to  talk,  and  told  us  that  his  business  was  very  bad; 
that  scarcely  anyone  stopped  at  Edam  any  more;  that 
visitors  just  took  a  look  at  the  town,  on  the  way  to 
or  from  Volendam  and  Marken;  and  a  lot  more  that 
I  have  forgotten. 

We  strolled  down  to  the  station,  after  awhile, 
admiring  the  pjcturesque  canals  and  the  pretty  houses, 
and  exchanging  greetings  with  a  family  fishing  off 
the  back-end  of  their  yard. 

"  Good-bye !  good-bye !  "  they  called,  and  waved 
their  hands;  and  they  did  not  in  the  least  mean  to 
bid  us  farewell,  but  only  to  say  "How  are  you?" 
or  something  of  that  kind.  All  over  Holland,  the 
visitor  is  greeted  with  "  Good-bye,  sir ;  good-bye," 
which  is  the  only  English  salutation  many  of  the 
people  know.  As  the  last  words  of  departing  English 
or  Americans,  I  suppose  the  phrase  has  stuck  in  their 
memories.  But,  until  one  gets  used  to  it,  it  is  a  little 
disconcerting,  on  entering  a  shop  or  cafe,  to  be 
greeted  with  "Good-bye,  sir;  good-bye!" 

At  the  station  we  met  one  of  the  tourists  who  had 
got  separated  from  his  party  and,  being  thrown  on 
his  own  resources  for  the  first  time,  was  sadly  at  a 
loss  what  to  do.  So  we  took  him  along  with  us,  and 
he  told  us  his  troubles,  and  how  the  party  had  been 
ten  days  in  Italy,  Switzerland,  Germany  and  Holland, 
and  was  going  on  to  Paris  next  day,  and  then  to  Lon- 
don, to  sail  from  Liverpool  at  the  end  of  the  week; 
and  how  they  got  on  each  other's  nerves;  and  how 


The  Island  of  Marken,  Limited      245 

one  member  hadn't  changed  his  collar  nor,  presuma- 
bly, anything  else  since  he  started;  and  he  was  quite 
pitiful  about  it,  and  wanted  us  to  take  him  some  place 
where  we  could  have  'a  nice  little  Dutch  dinner  to- 
gether; but  there  are  some  sacrifices  too  great  for 
human  nature.  So  we  piloted  him  to  the  door  of 
the  "  American  "  hotel  where  he  was  staying  and  left 
him  there,  and  fared  gayly  on  to  our  own  little  inn 
with  the  unpronounceable  name. 

And  that  evening  we  had  dinner  at  a  quiet  cafe 
overlooking  the  Dam,  where  the  head-waiter  got  the 
table  at  the  corner  window  for  us.  And  we  sat  for 
a  long  time  over  the  coffee,  while  I  smoked  one  of 
those  delicious  Dutch  cigars,  and  watched  the  busy 
crowd  below.  And  then,  when  darkness  had  really 
come,  and  all  the  lamps  were  lighted,  we  took  a  last 
stroll  along  the  crowded  Kalverstraat,  for  we  were 
to  leave  Amsterdam  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE    ANNEXATION    OF    THE    "  CHOCOLATE  -  DROP  " 

IT  was  Monday,  July  4th,  when  we  left  Amsterdam 
for  a  circuit  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  —  a  fact  which  was 
brought  home  to  us,  as  we  walked  along  the  Damrak 
toward  the  station,  for  Cook's  office  was  crowded  with 
tourists,  as  usual,  and  many  of  them  had  a  small 
American  flag  displayed  somewhere  about  their 
persons.  We  met  our  legless  beggar  again,  too,  and 
bade  him  good-bye,  and  dropped  a  few  cents  into  his 
hand.  He  sat  watching  us,  with  his  hat  off,  until  we 
were  out  of  sight. 

This  trip  about  the  Zuyder  Zee  was  to  enable  us  to 
visit  those  "  Dead  Cities,"  about  which  M.  Havard 
had  written  so  entertainingly,  and  which  are  so  quaint 
and  interesting;  and  we  had  prepared  for  it  by 
purchasing  a  new  piece  of  baggage.  What  with 
pieces  of  pewter  and  antiques  in  brass  and  porcelain, 
our  suit-cases  were  growing  very  crowded;  besides 
we  wanted  something  lighter  than  a  leather  suit-case 
to  take  with  us  on  a  trip  which  would  be  a  flying  one. 
So,  after  many  visits  to  the  shops  along  the  Kalver- 
straat,  we  had  decided  upon  an  English  travelling-bag 
made  of  some  sort  of  dark-brown  material,  which 
Betty  had  promptly  christened  the  "  chocolate-drop." 

246 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate -Drop  "    247 

The  name  stuck  to  it;  and  we  found  the  bag  most 
convenient ;  for  it  was  extensible,  as  well  as  light,  and 
could  accommodate  a  variety  of  articles  truly  amazing. 
It  was  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  with  count- 
less flaps  and  pockets  and  places  to  put  things.  Long 
before  that  trip  was  finished,  I  thought  we  had  reached 
the  limit  of  its  capacity;  and  yet  always  found  that 
we  could  crowd  in  a  few  things  more.  We  took  the 
"  chocolate-drop  "  with  us  all  over  Europe,  and,  after 
that  trip  around  the  Zuyder  Zee,  never  thought  of 
carrying  the  things  we  needed  from  day  to  day  in 
anything  else.  In  fact,  as  soon  as  we  found  out  how 
convenient  it  was,  we  sent  all  the  rest  of  our  luggage 
on  to  Brussels  and  then  to  Paris,  to  wait  for  us. 

We  both  came  to  regard  the  "  chocolate-drop  "  with 
a  real  affection;  it  was  so  faithful  and  so  willing  to 
stretch  itself  just  a  little  more.  It  got  some  rough 
handling  before  we  landed  in  New  York  again,  but 
it  never  broke  a  strap  or  lost  a  single  item  of  its  con- 
tents ;  and  it  shall  certainly  go  with  us  next  time ! 

The  "  chocolate-drop,"  then,  was  our  only  piece  of 
baggage  that  morning.  I  found,  with  satisfaction, 
that  it  fitted  nicely  into  the  luggage-rack  in  our  com- 
partment; and  quite  happy  and  content,  we  took  our 
places,  and  watched  the  spires  of  Amsterdam  fade 
away  behind  us.  The  first  part  of  the  journey,  as  far 
as  Zaandam,  was  all  too  familiar  to  us;  but  at  Zaan- 
dam  we  turned  north,  leaving  whirling  away  to  our 
left  the  windmills  we  never  got  to  photograph.  From 
here  on,  the  train  ran  along  the  rich  Wormer  polder, 


248  The  Spell  of  Holland 

with  many  canals  —  almost  as  much  water  as  land, 
in  fact,  from  which  I  infer  that  the  polder  has  not 
yet  been  effectively  drained. 

Along  the  banks  of  the  canals  were  piles  of  peat 
which  had  been  dredged  up  from  the  bottom  and 
dumped  there  to  dry  before  being  cut  up  into  blocks. 
Many  sheep  and  cattle  were  grazing  in  the  fields,  some 
of  them  wearing  canvas  jackets  to  protect  them  from 
the  cold,  and  here  and  there  was  a  low,  tree-shaded 
farmhouse  of  brick,  with  immense  roof  of  red  tile. 
Sometimes  only  the  lower  part  of  the  roof  was  of 
tile,  the  upper  part  being  of  thatch,  trimmed,  where  it 
overlapped  the  tiles,  into  geometrical  shapes.  The 
Dutch  are  certainly  past  masters  of  the  art  of  thatch- 
ing; it  is  so  smooth  and  so  visibly  impervious.  But 
I  am  afraid  that  both  thatch  and  peat  must  yield, 
sooner  or  later,  to  the  march  of  improvement,  and 
leave  Holland  less  picturesque. 

We  came  soon  to  Purmerend,  a  pretty  and  well- 
shaded  town,  with  magnificent  avenues  of  trees  along 
the  roads  leading  out  of  it.  Then  the  train  went  on 
along  the  great  Beemster  polder,  which  seemed  fairly 
alive  with  birds,  herons,  especially,  standing  slim  and 
blue  on  the  edges  of  the  canals  watching  for  fish. 

As  we  neared  Hoorn,  we  could  see  on  the  right  the 
high  dyke  keeping  back  the  waters  of  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
and  beyond  it  the  sails  of  many  boats.  We  noticed  that 
all  the  gate-keepers  in  this  part  of  Holland  were 
women.  There  was  one  at  every  crossing,  standing 
at  attention  as  the  train  passed,  red  flag  in  hand. 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    249 

Their  uniform  consisted  of  a  blue  cape  with  a  red 
collar,  and  a  queer  stiff  varnished  hat. 

Then  the  train  stopped  at  Hoorn,  and  we  left  it, 
for  we  wished  to  see  this  old  and  picturesque  "  dead 
city."  Let  me  explain  that  term  before  I  go  farther. 

The  Zuyder  Zee  is  the  youngest  ocean  on  earth. 
History  records  its  birth,  its  growth,  and  its  decay. 
It  will  probably  also  record  its  death,  for  a  project 
is  on  foot  to  pump  it  out  and  convert  its  bottom  into 
smiling  fields. 

In  the  middle  ages,  there  was  no  sea  here,  but  a 
mighty  forest,  in  which  was  a  lake,  called  Flevo  by 
the  Romans,  from  which  a  river  flowed  into  the  North 
Sea  near  the  present  town  of  Medemblik.  But  the 
Romans,  in  one  of  their  engineering  works,  turned 
a  large  portion  of  the  waters  of  the  Rhine  into  the 
river  Ijssel,  which  emptied  into  Lake  Flevo;  and  the 
lake  gradually  overflowed  its  banks,  uprooting  the 
forests  and  turning  the  whole  country  into  a  soft 
marsh.  Then,  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, came  a  great  flood.  The  waters  of  the  North 
Sea  rushed  in  over  this  marsh,  swallowing  up  the 
villages  which  had  managed  to  maintain  a  foothold 
in  it,  and  the  Zuyder  Zee  was  formed. 

It  was  quite  deep,  at  first,  so  that  ocean-going  ves- 
sels could  sail  into  it,  and  around  its  banks  sprang 
up  a  chain  of  important  towns  fostered  by  this  com- 
merce —  Enkhuisen,  Hoorn,  Edam,  Stavoren,  Kam- 
pen,  Monnikendam,  and  many  others.  These  towns 
grew  rich  and  powerful,  possessed  great  fleets  which 


250  The  Spell  of  Holland 

sailed  regularly  to  the  Mediterranean,  and  even  to 
China  and  the  Indies.  It  was  from  the  town  of  Hoorn 
that  Willem  Schotiten  sailed  in  the  first  ship  which 
went  around  South  America,  and  he  named  that  ulti- 
mate point  of  land  Cape  Horn  in  honour  of  his  native 
town.-  It  was  another  Hoorn  sailor,  Abel  Tasman, 
who  discovered  the  country  which  he  named  Van  Die- 
man's  Land,  but  which  is  now  Tasmania.  It  was  still 
another,  Jan  Pietersz  Coen,  who  established  Dutch 
dominion  in  the  East  Indies.  It  was  Hoorn  that  pro- 
vided Admiral  Van  Tromp  with  a  navy.  It  was  off 
Hoorn  that  Admiral  Dirckzoon  defeated  an  armada 
of  thirty  Spanish  shios  under  Admiral  Bossu,  and 
saved  the  town  from  the  horrors  of  a  siege.  It  was  to 
Hoorn  that  Bossu  was  brought  a  prisoner,  and  for 
three  years  he  remained  shut  up  there  in  the  Protestant 
orphanage;  where  his  gold  goblet  is  still  preserved. 
Such  are  some  of  the  memories  of  greatness  which 
cluster  about  Hoorn. 

And  the  other  "  dead  cities  "  have  histories  just  as 
interesting.  This  was  the  manner  of  their  death. 
At  the  end  of  a  century  or  two,  the  mouth  of  the 
Zuyder  Zee  began  to  silt  up.  The  waves  of  the  North 
Sea  piled  up  banks  of  sand,  which  formed  into  islands 
or  even  more  dangerous  shallows;  the  process  once 
begun  went  on  with  ever-increasing  rapidity,  until 
at  last  the  Zuyder  Zee  was  closed  to  anything  larger 
than  a  fishing-boat.  Amsterdam  saved  herself,  as  we 
have  seen,  by  cutting  a  great  canal  to  the  ocean;  but 
these  other  towns  could  do  nothing.  They  withered 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    251 

and  withered;  their  walls  grew  too  large  for  them; 
their  houses  too  numerous  for  the  people  who 
remained.  So  some  of  the  houses  fell  into  disrepair 
and  were  pulled  down;  their  harbours  were  aban- 
doned ;  their  commerce  stopped.  They  are  not  exactly 
dead,  but  they  have  ceased  to  live. 

It  was  at  the  ancient  city  of  Hoorn,  then,  that  we 
left  the  train,  and  we  soon  found  it  to  be  one  of  the 
quaintest,  prettiest  towns  in  Holland.  Many  of 
the  buildings  date  from  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  are  ornamented  with  carvings  in  bas-relief  and 
with  designs  in  coloured  tiles,  evidence  of  the  wealth 
of  the  burgesses  who  built  them.  Three  houses  near 
the  water-front  bear  bas-reliefs  depicting  the  great 
battle  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  for  from  the  windows  of 
these  houses  the  principal  citizens  of  the  town  watched 
the  progress  of  that  battle,  with  an  anxiety  which  can 
be  imagined,  since  the  fate  of  the  town  hung  upon  its 
issue.  In  the  market-place  stands  a  statue  of  Jan 
Coen,  to  whom  I  have  referred,  and  who,  more  per- 
haps than  any  other  one  man,  changed  the  destiny  of 
Holland. 

The  town  has,  of  course,  a  number  of  churches  quite 
disproportionate  to  its  present  size,  and  the  most 
interesting  of  these  is,  I  think,  the  Nooderkerk.  We 
had  some  difficulty  finding  the  koster,  but  finally 
unearthed  a  little,  bright- faced  woman  from  an 
adjoining  house,  who  showed  us  about,  talking  volubly 
in  Dutch,  with  a  few  words  of  English.  She  had  a 


252  The  Spell  of  Holland 

son  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  when  she  learned  that 
we  were  from  the  same  state,  she  seemed  to  consider 
us  a  sort  of  link  with  the  absent  one. 

Evidently  the  people  who  entered  the  church  in  the 
old  days  were  expected  to  do  so  in  a  suitable  frame 
of  mind;  for  over  the  main  entrance  is  carved  a 
full-length  skeleton  reclining  on  a  dark  mat,  with 
"Memento  Mori"  under  it;  and  over  the  transept 
entrance  appear  a  skull  and  cross-bones,  with  the 
inscription,  "  Hie  Meta  Dolores."  Inside,  a  queer, 
spiral  stair  mounts  to  the  roof.  The  lady-chapel  has 
been  converted  into  a  waiting-room  for  wedding  par- 
ties by  the  addition  of  a  hooded  fireplace. 

The  walls  which  at  one  time  surrounded  Hoorn 
have  long  since  been  razed,  but  one  of  the  old  gates 
is  still  standing,  and,  of  course,  there  is  always  the 
beautiful  old  water-gate  looking  out  over  the  Zuyder 
Zee.  It  is,  I  think,  the  finest  harbour  tower  in  Holland. 
The  fagade  facing  the  town  is  covered  with  sculptures, 
that  toward  the  harbour  is  rounded  and  plain  save  for 
an  immense  coat-of-arms.  The  little  arches  about  the 
top  are  very  graceful,  the  row  of  windows  with  their 
painted  shutters  add  a  touch  of  colour,  and  the  roof 
mounts  to  the  spire  with  an  altogether  satisfying  deli- 
cacy. 

The  clock  in  the  tower,  like  most  old  Dutch  clocks, 
has  only  one  hand  —  the  hour  hand  —  so  that  it  is 
possible  to  tell  the  time  by  it  only  approximately. 
Thus,  if  the  hand  is  half-way  between  three  and  four, 
it  is,  of  course,  half-past  three;  but  it  requires  a  deli- 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    253 

cate  eye  to  tell  the  time  within  five  minutes.  If  you 
ask  a  Dutchman  what  time  it  is,  he  will  cock  his  eye 
at  the  clock  and  say  "  About  "  so-and-so.  He  always 
uses  the  qualifying  "  about."  We  tried  it  several 
times  to  find  out.  If  you  will  look  at  the  picture  of 
the  tower  (which  was  under  repair  when  we  were 
there,  as  the  scaffolding  about  it  shows)  opposite  the 
preceding  page,  you  will  see  that  the  single  hand 
points  to  about  twenty  minutes  after  twelve. 

After  we  had  inspected  the  tower,  we  wandered  on 
along  the  dyke,  from  which  one  gets  a  splendid  view 
of  the  sea,  with  every  prospect  a  picture.  One,  in 
especial,  I  remember  —  a  long  point  of  land,  with  a 
few  houses  and  a  windmill  on  it,  and  some  squat  little 
boats  rocking  in  the  haven,  and  the  white  clouds  piled 
against  the  blue  sky.  I  took  a  picture  of  it,  which  you 
will  find  opposite  page  252,  but  the  picture  gives  only 
the  faintest  idea  of  the  peaceful  beauty  of  the  scene. 

While  I  was  thus  engaged,  a  crowd  of  children,  who 
had  been  practising,  none  too  successfully,  walking 
on  stilts,  gathered  around  me,  and  I  let  them  look 
through  the  finder  of  the  camera.  There  were  cries 
of  delight  and  astonishment,  which  brought  their 
fresh- faced  mothers  and  elder  sisters  clustering  about 
me,  and  I  had  to  let  them  look,  too.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, there  was  a  scream  of  laughter,  and  I  looked 
up  to  see  Betty  walking  away  down  the  dyke  on  a 
pair  of  stilts,  with  the  ends  of  her  veil  fluttering  out 
behind  her  —  stilt-walking  being  one  of  the  accom- 
plishments of  her  childhood.  I  never  saw  anyone  so 


254  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

delighted  as  those  women  and  children  were!  I  dare 
say  they  are  talking  about  it  yet ! 

We  went  back,  after  that,  to  those  quiet,  clean, 
deserted  streets,  feeling  strangely  out  of  place  among 
surroundings  so  mediaeval.  Of  all  the  towns  we  saw 
in  Holland,  I  think  Hoorn  was  the  most  picturesque 
and  charming,  next  to  Middleburg,  and  possibly  Kam- 
pen.  It  is  a  direct  survival  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
There  is  a  cheese  market  held  here  every  week,  and 
a  gay  little  weigh-house  at  one  side  of  the  square 
where  the  cheeses  are  displayed;  but  on  other  days, 
the  town  seems  to  be  asleep,  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  its 
vanished  greatness. 

Our  host  at  Amsterdam  had  urgently  advised  us 
to  make  the  trip  from  Hoorn  to  Enkhuisen  not  by 
train  but  by  paard-tram,  or  horse-tram.  He  said  the 
trip  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  all  Holland, 
and  so  we  found  it.  It  is  a  journey  by  no  means  to 
be  missed. 

The  tram,  a  diminutive,  four-wheeled  car,  drawn 
by  a  single  horse  and  running  on  a  narrow  track,  starts 
at  the  market-place,  proceeds  with  much  clanging  of 
the  bell  through  the  town  to  the  station,  and  then 
heads  away  for  Enkhuisen,  twelve  and  a  half  miles 
distant,  along  a  paved  road,  shaded  by  trees,  with 
beautiful  little  houses  on  either  side  of  it.  The  car 
rolled  on  gently,  stopping  to  take  on  or  let  off  fre- 
quent passengers;  the  horse  attached  to  it  trotted 
along  cheerfully,  and  was  soon  changed  for  another, 
three,  I  think,  being  used  to  accomplish  the  journey. 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    255 

A  horse  is  a  great  treasure  in  Holland  —  almost  a 
curio  —  and  is  most  tenderly  cared  for ;  but,  indeed, 
I  think  the  Dutch  are  naturally  kind  to  all  animals. 

I  have  already  remarked  that,  in  Europe,  there  are 
as  many  things  to  interest  one  inside  a  tram  or  railway 
carriage  as  outside  it.  We  found  it  so  in  this  case. 
Solid,  fresh- faced  women,  young  and  old,  formed  the 
majority  of  the  passengers,  and  their  interest  in  us 
was  quite  frank  and  undisguised.  Most  of  the  women 
wore  a  style  of  headdress  new  to  us  —  a  lace  cap  fit- 
ting tightly  all  around  the  head,  and  on  top  of  it  a 
queer  little  straw  bonnet,  turned  up  in  front  and  lined 
with  flowered  silk.  They  were  careful  to  give  us 
plenty  of  room,  even  crowding  themselves  a  little  to 
do  it;  plainly  enjoyed  our  interest  in  the  beautiful 
country  we  were  passing  through,  and  smiled  and  even 
essayed  a  little  conversation  with  us  now  and  then. 

Betty  was  sitting  at  the  front  end  of  the  car  so  that 
she  could  see  out  ahead,  when  a  plump  priest  mounted 
the  front  platform  and  leaned  his  back  against  the 
window  she  was  looking  through.  There  was  con- 
sternation among  the  other  passengers ;  you  never  saw 
such  dismayed  faces.  It  was  as  though  she  had  been 
offered  a  personal  affront.  The  conductor  had  seen 
all  this,  he  caught  the  imploring  glances  cast  in  his 
direction,  and,  stopping  the  car,  ran  around  to  the 
front  platform  and  persuaded  the  priest  to  go  back 
to  the  rear  one.  Everybody  was  delighted.  Every- 
body nodded  and  smiled  at  us  as  the  car  proceeded. 
That  window  was  not  again  obstructed! 


256  The  Spell  of  Holland 

And  it  was  as  well,  for  we  have  never  had  such  a 
trip  as  that  one.  This  is  one  of  the  richest  portions 
of  all  Holland,  and  the  farmers'  houses  which  front 
the  road  on  either  side,  and  which  are  continuous  all 
the  way  from  Hoorn  to  Enkhuisen,  are  really  little 
villas,  each  with  its  own  grounds,  marvellously  kept, 
and  each  reached  by  a  little  bridge.  Most  of  the 
houses  are  painted  a  bright  blue  for  a  foot  or  two 
from  the  ground,  perhaps  with  a  special  preparation 
to  keep  out  the  damp;  above  this,  the  fancy  of  each 
individual  owner  has  full  play,  and  such  combinations 
of  reds  and  greens  and  pinks  and  purples  were  never 
seen  elsewhere.  Each  house  has  in  front  of  it  a  row 
of  trees  trained  in  the  form  of  a  screen  —  just  such 
aerial  hedges  as  we  saw  before  the  houses  along  the 
river  on  the  way  to  Gorinchem.  But  here  we  were 
close  enough  to  see  the  perfection  of  these  hedges  — 
trees  made  to  grow  so  flat  that,  with  a  spread  of  twenty 
feet,  they  would  be  not  over  a  foot  in  thickness. 

Each  house  is  surrounded  by  a  little  canal,  and  the 
elaborate  bridge  which  crosses  it  from  the  road  usually 
has  a  gate  in  the  middle.  The  front  doors  of  the 
houses  look  as  though  they  were  set  with  diamonds, 
so  highly  are  the  nail-heads  polished;  and  knocker 
and  knob  shine  like  gold.  Many  of  them  are  further 
ornamented  with  scrollwork  in  iron  or  brass,  or  with 
long  hinges  of  most  elaborate  design.  These  front 
doors  are,  if  possible,  even  more  inviolate  than  those 
in  the  south  of  Holland.  Only  a  death,  or  a  wedding, 
or  a  christening,  or  some  event  equally  important,  justi- 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    257 

fies  using  them  and  entering  that  holy  of  holies,  the 
parlour. 

Here  the  fancy  trimming  of  the  edges  of  the  thatch 
on  the  roofs  reaches  the  limits  of  genius;  and  here, 
too,  we  saw  such  ornate  summer-houses  and  dog- 
kennels  and  chicken-coops  as  we  had  never  imagined 
existed,  with  carving  and  gingerbread-work  and  little 
cupolas,  set  so  close  together  that  they  fairly  jostle 
each  other,  reached  by  gravelled  paths  only  a  foot  or 
so  in  width,  and  with  gay  little  flower-beds  in  the 
unoccupied  corners  around  them.  They  are  painted 
to  match  the  dwelling-house,  and  when  there  is  any 
paint  left,  it  is  used  on  the  trunks  of  the  trees. 

As  we  rolled  into  Enkhuisen,  we  saw  a  man  in  a 
wide  black  hat  with  a  long  black  crape  streamer  dan- 
gling from  it,  and  a  long  black  gown  shrouding  his 
body,  knocking  at  a  door,  and  we  recognized  the  long- 
looked-for  aansprecker  —  the  dignitary  who  is  hired 
to  go  about  and  break  the  news  of  a  death,  and  tell 
the  hour  of  the  funeral,  to  the  friends  of  the  bereaved 
family. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  if  I  could  only  get  his  picture!" 

But  that  seemed  too  much  to  hope  for. 

However,  as  we  got  off  the  car,  we  came  upon  a 
group  of  three  or  four  aanspreckers  standing  at  a 
corner,  comparing  black-bordered  lists  in  their  hands; 
and  I  mustered  up  courage  to  approach  them  and  ask 
if  I  might  photograph  them.  I  more  than  half  expected 
to  be  repulsed,  as  one  proposing  a  sacrilege;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  they  smiled  and  nodded,  and  obligingly 


258  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

posed  themselves  —  on  condition  that  I  send  them  one 
of  the  pictures  —  a  condition  to  which  I  eagerly 
agreed.  All  the  other  passengers  who  had  come  on 
the  car  with  us,  as  well  as  the  inhabitants  of  the 
neighbouring  houses,  clustered  around  while  this  nego- 
tiation was  in  progress,  and  it  was  finally  concluded 
only  with  the  assistance  of  one  of  our  fellow-passen- 
gers, a  young  lady  who  could  speak  a  little  Eng- 
lish. 

Well,  more  aanspreckers  had  been  coming  up  all  this 
while,  and  by  the  time  everything  was  settled,  there 
were  eight  or  ten  in  the  group.  They  spread  out 
gravely  before  me,  some  volunteer  helpers  pushed  back 
the  crowd,  and  I  snapped  the  picture;  and  then,  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension,  lest  I  had  forgotten  something 
at  the  critical  moment  —  for  I  was  miserably  nervous 
with  all  these  people  looking  on  —  I  took  another,  the 
aanspreckers  having  by  this  time  increased  to  a  dozen 
or  more,  and  still  others  coming  up  every  minute. 
Then  the  head  aansprecker  wrote  his  name  in  my 
memorandum  book,  so  I  would  be  sure  to  get  the 
address  right,  and  we  thanked  them  and  went  on.  The 
picture  was  duly  sent  and,  I  hope,  duly  received. 

We  found  quarters  at  "  Die  Poort  van  Cleve,"  a 
really  old  inn,  rambling  but  beautifully-kept,  with  a 
staircase  more  than  usually  ladder-like.  We  were 
attended  by  a  cherub- faced  man  of  middle  age,  who 
showed  us  to  our  room,  overlooking  the  broad  haven, 
and  took  our  order  for  dinner,  and  served  it  per- 
sonally, and  a  very  good  one  it  was! 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    259 

After  dinner  I  had  quite  a  chat  with  him,  for  he 
knew  English  fairly  well,  and  he  told  me  that  we 
were  in  great  luck  to  get  a  picture  of  the  aanspreckers, 
for  there  were  only  about  twenty-five  deaths  a  year 
in  Enkhuisen,  and  hence  the  aanspreckers  were  out 
only  about  twice  a  month.  The  costume  they  wore 
that  day  was  for  a  funeral  of  the  second  class.  For 
one  of  the  first  class,  they  wear  top-hats  and  frock- 
coats,  with  silver  braid  across  the  front.  I  saw  this 
costume  afterwards  at  Kampen,  and  while  perhaps 
more  dignified,  it  is  much  less  striking  and  pictur- 
esque than  the  flowing  robes  and  wide  hats  of  the 
inferior  class.  The  aanspreckers,  I  understand,  form 
a  sort  of  close  corporation,  and  their  fees  are  pre- 
scribed by  law.  They  are  used  also,  sometimes,  to 
announce  births,  in  which  event  they  deck  their  suits 
of  black  with  white  ribbons  and  rosettes  to  indicate 
the  joyful  character  of  the  event  they  come  to  an- 
nounce. 

Enkhuisen  is  another  Hoorn  with  its  old  houses 
and  quiet  streets  and  air  of  deserted  antiquity.  The 
houses,  with  their  elaborate  stone  carvings  and  high 
stepped  gables,  are  quite  as  picturesque  as  those  at 
Hoorn.  Enkhuisen  does  homage  to  the  herring,  from 
which  much  of  its  wealth  was  at  one  time  derived, 
by  showing  three  herrings  on  its  arms,  or  "  wapen." 
The  fish  lie  horizontally,  one  above  another,  and  this 
device  was  a  favourite  one  with  the  stone-carvers.  The 
houses  are  ornate  inside  as  well  as  out,  for  the  old 
skippers  who  voyaged  to  the  Mediterranean  used  to 


260  The  Spell  of  Holland 

bring  back  Italian  marble  in  their  holds  for  ballast, 
and  many  of  the  houses  are  paved  with  these  precious 
parti-coloured  slabs.  Some  of  them,  too,  have  their 
walls  and  fireplaces  tiled  with  old  Delft;  and  the  fur- 
niture in  them  would  turn  an  antiquarian  green  with 
envy. 

The  stadhuis  is  a  handsome,  stone- faced  structure, 
unusually  interesting  within.  In  the  upper  hall,  which 
is  paved  with  beautiful  slabs  of  white  marble,  and 
which  has  a  remarkable  echo,  the  candelabra  are  sure  to 
attract  the  visitor's  attention.  They  are  in  the  shape 
of  four  great  arms  thrust  out  from  the  walls,  painted 
flesh  colour,  and  holding  up  with  much  muscular  exer- 
tion four  tiny  candlesticks  weighing  a  few  ounces 
each.  Our  guide,  a  pleasant  man  whom  a  ring  at 
the  door  had  summoned,  made  the  echo  perform  for 
us,  and  showed  us  a  few  curios,  among  them  a  block 
and  axe.  The  axe  is  dull  and  rusty,  but  the  block,  of 
dark  oak,  is  kept  furbished  up  to  show  the  graceful 
carvings  with  which  it  is  embellished  —  allegories 
from  the  New  Testament,  designed,  no  doubt,  to 
soothe  the  last  moments  of  the  condemned  as  he 
placed  his  neck  on  the  block  and  waited  for  the 
blow. 

Then  our  guide  led  the  way  into  the  council-chamber 
—  another  of  those  solemnly  beautiful  rooms  in  which 
the  favoured  city  fathers  of  this  land  transact  their 
business.  The  walls  are  hung  with  red  Utrecht  velvet, 
dating  from  1692,  but  more  beautiful,  if  anything, 
than  when  it  left  the  loom.  Fourteen  chairs,  uphol- 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    261 

stered  in  tapestry,  with  the  three  herrings  embroidered 
on  the  back  of  each,  are  ranged  before  a  long  table, 
on  which  gleamed  as  usual  the  pewter  ink-wells  and 
sanders. 

Next  to  this  is  the  burgomeester's  room,  with  a 
fine  painting  by  Ferdinand  Bol,  and  beyond  a  waiting- 
room  draped  with  brown  Utrecht  velvet.  There  is 
an  old  picture  there  of  a  burgomeester,  his  wife,  and 
six  children,  three  girls  and  three  boys.  Our  guide, 
with  great  glee,  asked  us  to  guess  which  were  which; 
and  when  we  were  unable  to  do  so,  for  they  all  looked 
exactly  alike,  except  that  the  older  ones  were  painted 
a  little  larger  than  the  others,  he  showed  us  the  clue. 
The  burgomeester  wore  a  square  lace  collar,  and  his 
wife  a  round  one;  and  the  artist,  whose  skill  was 
unequal  to  differentiating  the  sexes  in  any  more  subtle 
way,  painted  the  boys  with  square  collars  like  their 
father,  and  the  girls  with  round  collars  like  their 
mother,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Back  of  this  room,  is  a  beautiful  little  chamber,  at 
one  time  the  meeting-place  of  the  governing  board 
of  the  municipal  orphanage.  Its  walls  are  covered  with 
Gobelin  tapestry,  and  there  is  a  handsome  painting 
by  Van  Neck  over  the  ornate  marble  mantel. 

The  governing  board,  I  suppose,  now  sits  at  the 
orphanage  itself,  the  quaintest  of  buildings,  with  its 
high  gables  and  stone  ornamentation,  and  sculptured 
figures  of  two  orphans,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  in  elaborately 
coloured  costumes,  standing  on  the  cornice  of  the  front 
door.  Inside,  the  building  has  remained  unchanged 


262  The  Spell  of  Holland 

for  a  century,  with  its  rows  of  little  snowy  beds  in 
the  dormitories,  and  the  rows  of  seats  in  the  refec- 
tory, and  everything  as  clean  as  soap  and  water  and 
Dutch  energy  can  make  it. 

The  Enkhuisen  orphans  dress  like  other  children, 
for  the  people  of  the  town  very  sensibly  think  it  wrong 
to  set  them  apart  by  a  freak  costume,  as  Haarlem  and 
Amsterdam  and  other  cities  do.  Enkhuisen  is  not  a 
large  place,  numbering  only  about  six  thousand,  and 
yet  there  are  eight  benevolent  institutions  in  the  town, 
as  our  host  at  the  Poort  van  Cleve  proudly  informed 
us,  to  care  for  the  sick,  the  destitute,  and  the  aged, 
as  well  as  for  the  orphans.  Most  of  these  were 
founded  by  some  wealthy  citizen  in  the  days  of  the 
town's  greatness,  and  all  of  them  are  well-endowed. 

The  Westerkerk  is  worth  visiting,  if  only  to  see 
the  choir-screen.  Moses,  Joshua,  and  the  Four  Evan- 
gelists look  down  from  above  the  cornice,  and  the  work 
in  the  panels  below  is  very  delicate  and  graceful.  The 
screen  is  dated  1742,  and  one  of  the  panels  is  unfin- 
ished. Whether  death  stopped  the  hand  of  the  carver 
or  some  accident  interfered  with  the  completion  of 
the  work  I  could  not  find  out.  The  church  itself 
is  barren  and  empty,  without  transepts;  but  the 
grave-slabs  which  compose  the  pavement  are  carved 
with  unusual  richness.  And  the  church  is  unique  in 
having  a  high  wooden  bell-tower  entirely  detached 
from  it. 

The  town  has  shrunk  far  back  from  its  old  walls, 
and  broad  fields  stretch  in  between  the  present  town 


Annexation  of  the  "  Chocolate-Drop  "    263 

and  the  last  of  the  old  gates  —  fields  that  were  at  one 
time  covered  with  houses.  For  in  its  heydey,  this 
was  a  busy  city  of  sixty  thousand  people.  It  possessed 
a  herring  fleet  of  seven  hundred  boats,  of  which  not 
one  remains.  About  a  score  of  little  boats  still  put 
out  into  the  Zuyder  Zee  to  fish  for  anchovies;  but  no 
longer  do  Enkhuisen  fishermen  brave  the  ocean. 

At  one  time,  the  reputation  of  the  Enkhuisen  seamen 
was  so  great  that  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  and  even 
his  Dutch-hating  son,  would  have  no  other  sailors  on 
their  royal  ships,  doubtless  esteeming  their  lives  more 
safe  in  such  hands  than  in  lubberly  Spanish  ones.  Yet, 
despite  this  royal  preference,  Enkhuisen  was  the  first 
town  in  Holland  to  open  its  gates  to  William  the  Silent, 
and  to  take  its  stand  with  him  in  the  struggle  for 
Dutch  independence. 

I  sat  for  a  long  time  after  dinner  that  evening, 
loitering  in  the  hotel  office,  talking  to  the  chance  arri- 
vals, and  watching  an  interminable  game  of  billiards, 
played  on  a  table  about  half  as  large  as  the  ones  we 
use.  Then  I  walked  over  to  the  harbour,  dominated 
by  the  old  double-humped  Drommedaris  tower,  a 
relic  of  the  ancient  walls,  not  so  light  and  airy  as  that 
at  Hoorn,  but  enriched  with  a  charming  carillon,  and 
flanked  by  a  most  picturesque  huddle  of  red-roofed 
houses.  The  bells  were  ringing  sweetly  overhead  as  I 
sat  down  on  the  sea-wall  and  gazed  out  at  the  darken- 
ing water. 

The  little  fishing-boats  were  gliding  one  by  one  out 
of  the  haven  for  another  night's  work,  and  the  horizon 


264  The  Spell  of  Holland 

was  dotted  with  the  sails  of  those  already  at  sea. 
The  harbour  lights  gleamed  dim,  for  a  mist  of  rain 
was  in  the  air,  and  sky  and  sea  were  pearly  gray.  It 
was  a  beautiful  picture  —  and  a  saddening  one. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FREE  FRISIA 

IT  was  a  clear  and  sunshiny  morning  that  we  bade 
good-bye  to  the  Poort  van  Cleve,  after  an  excellent 
breakfast,  at  which  the  only  other  guest  was  a  tobacco 
salesman.  He  denied,  at  first,  that  he  could  speak 
English,  but  after  his  first  embarrassment  wore  off 
he  spoke  it  fairly  well,  and  ended  by  presenting  me 
with  a  cigar  from  his  stock.  "  I  will  gif  you  a  good 
one,"  he  said,  and  it  was  good. 

The  cherubic  landlord  was  presumably  yet  abed, 
but  the  landlady  accompanied  us  to  the  front  door 
to  wish  us  a  pleasant  journey.  Our  railroad  coupons 
from  Hoorn  to  Enkhuisen  had  not  been  taken  up, 
because  we  had  elected  to  come  by  tram,  and  at  the 
station  we  had  quite  an  exciting  argument  with  the 
gateman,  before  he  would  permit  us  to  retain  them; 
and  even  then,  he  took  us  before  a  superior  for  con- 
sultation before  conceding  us  the  right  to  keep  them. 
We  had  many  struggles  after  that  to  retain  those 
coupons ;  for  they  were  in  a  book,  and  every  gateman 
and  inspector  regarded  our  possession  of  them  with 
suspicion.  We  didn't  care  much  at  first,  but  we  soon 
grew  determined  to  keep  them,  cost  what  it  might; 
besides,  it  was  worth  something  to  see  the  expression 

265 


266  The  Spell  of  Holland 

of  surprised  dismay  which  overspread  each  official's 
face  when  he  opened  the  book  and  found  those  cou- 
pons there ! 

The  boat  from  Enkhuisen  across  the  Zuyder  Zee  to 
Stavoren  runs  in  connection  with  the  train,  and  there 
was  quite  a  crowd  on  board  that  morning.  Some  of 
them  were  merchants  going  over  to  the  Friesland 
markets,  and  some  were  hunters  going  after  the  Fries- 
land  game,  whatever  it  may  be. 

As  the  boat  steamed  with  us  out  of  the  harbour, 
we  looked  back  at  Enkhuisen  with  regret.  From  the 
sea,  the  tree-shaded  quays  looked  unusually  pretty, 
and  we  agreed  in  voting  it  one  of  the  nicest  towns 
we  had  seen.  The  morning  was  cool  and  bright,  with 
little  fleecy  clouds  hanging  in  the  air,  seemingly  only 
a  hundred  feet  or  so  above  the  water;  and  the  water 
itself  was  of  that  peculiar  translucent  green-gray 
which  one  sees  in  Dutch  paintings  of  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
and  regards  at  first  with  suspicion,  it  looks  so  unlike 
any  other  water.  There  were  few  sails  in  sight,  for 
the  fishermen  had  hauled  up  their  nets  at  dawn  and 
were  safe  again  in  the  haven.  Once  we  sighted  a 
steamer  puffing  away  to  Medemblik,  and  then  far 
ahead  appeared  the  roofs  of  Stavoren,  peeping  over 
the  great  dyke  which  shelters  the  town  from  the  sea. 

Stavoren  was  once  the  residence  of  the  princes  of 
that  Free  Frisia  which  the  Romans  were  glad  to  have 
as  an  ally,  and  later  grew  into  a  city  of  great  com- 
mercial importance,  with  walls  and  towers,  temples 
and  palaces,  so  renowned  that  travellers  came  from 


Free  Frisia  267 

distant  countries  to  see  them.  She  was  one  of  the 
principal  cities  of  the  great  Hanseatic  league,  and 
finally  grew  so  strong  that  she  broke  her  treaties  with 
these  allies,  and  even  defeated  an  army  brought  against 
her  by  the  powerful  Count  of  Holland.  But  the  tide 
turned;  the  port  was  silted  up,  trade  went  elsewhere, 
whole  quarters  of  the  town  were  destroyed  by  inun- 
dations which  the  inhabitants  no  longer  had  the  energy 
to  resist,  then  a  great  fire  swept  it;  its  hostile  neigh- 
bours assailed  it,  and  it  was  reduced  to  a  sorry  village. 
There  are,  I  suppose,  not  over  a  hundred  houses  in 
the  town  now,  and  they  are  of  the  most  primitive 
type.  Sic  transit! 

The  old  chroniclers  attribute  the  decay  of  Stavoren 
to  Divine  wrath  over  a  blasphemous  act  committed  by 
a  wealthy  widow  of  Stavoren.  Let  me  tell  the  story, 
since  I  suppose  it  must  be  told,  in  the  words  of 
Guicciardini : 

"  There  was  a  widow  in  the  town  so  rich  that  of 
her  wealth  she  knew  not  the  extent,  with  the  conse- 
quence that  she  became  petulant  and  saucy.  She  loaded 
a  ship  for  Dantzig,  ordering  its  master  to  bring  back 
in  exchange  for  the  merchandise  which  she  sent  the 
most  exquisite  and  rare  product  of  that  region;  and 
as  the  master  of  the  ship,  reaching  Dantzig,  found 
there  no  product  more  in  demand  than  grain,  he 
returned  laden  with  it  to  Stavoren.  This  so  dis- 
pleased the  widow,  that  she  ordered  the  wheat  to  be 
thrown  overboard ;  which,  being  done  on  the  instant, 
in  that  very  place  there  arose  so  great  a  sandbank 


268  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

that  the  harbour  was  so  blocked  that  no  great  ships 
could  enter  it;  hence  the  bank  is  still  called  the  Lady's 
Sand.  Whence,  little  by  little,  the  said  town  lost  its 
staple,  and  its  traffic  and  commerce  decayed." 

The  grain  of  truth  amidst  all  this  chaff  is  that  the 
sandbank  is,  indeed,  called  the  Vrouwensand.  "  People 
of  that  time,"  sagely  observes  M.  Havard,  "  must  have 
a  very  strange  idea  of  Divine  justice  if  they  believed 
the  ruin  of  a  whole  town  a  good  way  of  punishing  a 
widow !  " 

At  any  rate,  the  result  of  all  this  is  that  a  city 
which  was  at  one  time  one  of  the  wonders  of  Christen- 
dom, is  no  longer  worth  stopping  at,  so  we  got  on 
the  train  for  Sneek  —  pronounced  Snake  —  and  were 
soon  rolling  along  towards  it  through  this  most  north- 
ern of  Dutch  provinces.  The  principal  feature  of 
the  landscape  are  the  immense  houses,  all  built  on  one 
plan,  and  that  a  sufficiently  peculiar  one.  As  the  win- 
ters here  are  wet  and  cold,  the  hay  which  is  harvested 
to  feed  the  numerous  cattle  cannot  be  left  outdoors  as 
it  is  elsewhere,  but  must  be  drily  housed,  and  hence  the 
houses  are  built  to  accommodate  not  only  the  family 
and  the  livestock,  but  the  hay  as  well.  That  is  to  say, 
the  walls  are  very  low,  with  doors  and  windows  in 
them  in  the  family  part,  and  smaller  windows  in  the 
portion  set  apart  for  the  cattle,  and  over  these  is 
reared  a  four-square  roof,  towering  like  a  pyramid 
high  into  the  air  —  thirty  or  forty  feet  is  no  uncommon 
height.  It  looks  as  though  each  man  had  tried  to  build 
a  higher  roof  than  any  of  his  neighbours,  and  that  its 


Free  Frisia  269 

immense  weight  had  crushed  the  walls  deep  into  the 
wet  ground. 

A  visit  to  one  of  these  houses  is  a  great  treat.  The 
living-rooms  are,  of  course,  immaculately  clean,  usually 
paved  with  tile,  and  with  tiled  walls ;  and  the  quarters 
of  the  cattle  are  almost  as  ornate.  Little  white  cur- 
tains are  at  the  windows;  the  stalls  are  paved  and 
spread  with  sand,  and  there  is  not  a  speck  of  dirt  or 
suspicion  of  offensive  odour.  The  tails  of  the  cows, 
each  of  which  has  a  stall  to  itself,  are  usually  looped 
up  to  prevent  them  splashing  themselves,  and  the  cows 
themselves  are  scrubbed  until  they  shine.  Each  of 
them  has  her  toilet  made  for  her  regularly  every  day. 
In  one  corner  is  the  room  in  which  the  cheese  is 
pressed,  this,  too,  as  immaculate  as  all  the  rest,  and 
with  its  copper  utensils  shining  like  gold.  Those 
Friesland  women  must  be  constantly  at  work  with 
brush  and  bucket. 

The  fields  were  full  of  sheep  and  of  those  black- 
and-white  Friesland  cattle  which  are  here  seen  at 
their  best.  The  land  is  very  low,  and  subject  to  fre- 
quent inundations.  The  Frieslanders  are  said  to 
expect  an  inundation  once  in  five  years. 

It  was  market  day  at  Sneek,  and  the  square  and 
streets  adjoining  were  packed  with  people,  who  had 
driven  in  from  the  neighbouring  farms  in  their  one 
and  two-seated  carts,  built  very  high,  polished  like 
pianos,  and  often  ornamented  with  gold-tipped  carv- 
ings. We  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  market, 
for  we  inquired  the  way  of  a  woman  who  was  stand- 


270  The  Spell  of  Holland 

ing  in  a  doorway,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  understand, 
though  I  said  "  Kaas  markt,"  as  plainly  as  I  could. 
We  found  out  the  reason,  afterwards,  as  I  shall 
tell. 

The  belles  of  Friesland  are  said  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  in  Holland;  but  we  failed  to  see  any  who 
deserved  that  reputation.  We  did,  however,  see  many 
examples  of  the  quaint  Friesland  headdress  —  a  gold 
or  silver  casque,  fitting  tightly  over  the  head,  and 
over  this  a  little  lace  cap.  Alas,  that  the  head-dress 
does  not  stop  there;  but  many  of  these  women,  envy- 
ing, I  suppose,  their  sisters  of  other  countries,  mount 
on  top  of  this  lace  cap  a  modern  hat,  trimmed  with 
flowers!  Indeed,  all  over  Holland  we  witnessed  this 
phenomenon  —  the  head-dress  of  the  province,  with 
a  flower-laden  bonnet  atop  of  it.  The  effect  may  be 
imagined ! 

There  are  many  legends  to  account  for  the  metal 
casque,  or  "  hoofdijzer,"  of  the  Friesland  women. 
One  is  that  it  is  intended  to  protect  their  skulls  from 
the  assaults  of  their  lords  and  masters  when  the  latter 
come  home  on  market-day  having  partaken  of  schnapps 
too  freely.  Another  is  that  it  was  devised  to  conceal 
a  deformity  of  one  of  the  Frisian  princesses,  and  was 
at  once  adopted  by  all  the  other  women  who  wanted 
to  be  in  style.  You  may  take  your  choice  of  these, 
or  invent  a  third  legend  of  your  own.  But  there  the 
casques  are,  gleaming  in  the  sunlight  like  polished 
armour.  They  are  often  very  valuable,  and  are  the 
most  treasured  of  heirlooms.  They  have  this  ad  van- 


Free  Frisia  271 

tage  over  other  headdresses,  that  they  never  wear  out. 
Sometimes  metal  ornaments  are  added  in  front,  at 
either  side  of  the  forehead,  in  the  shape  of  spirals 
made  of  wire,  or  little  plates  of  silver,  and  huge  ear- 
rings are  worn  and  coral  necklaces  and  many  other 
articles  of  adornment,  the  effect  of  which  is  almost 
oriental. 

Sneek  is  a  clean  and  pretty  town,  with  one  of  the 
most  attractive  water-gates  I  have  seen  anywhere, 
spanning  a  canal  with  twin  arches,  and  with  a  slender 
tower  at  either  side.  There  is  a  pretty  little  stadhuis 
in  the  French  style;  many  clean  canals,  and  friendly 
people ;  but  it  is  scarcely  worth  a  visit. 

When  we  got  on  the  train  again,  there  were  three 
men  in  the  compartment;  and  when  they  heard  us 
talking  together,  they  asked  us  if  we  were  English. 
We  told  them  no,  that  we  were  Americans.  They 
were  delighted,  and  wanted  to  talk  to  us,  to  hear  all 
about  America  and  tell  us  all  about  Friesland.  Then 
we  understood  why  that  woman  at  Sneek  had  not 
known  what  the  "  Kaas  markt  "  was.  For  the  Frisian 
language  and  the  Dutch  language  are  quite  distinct.  In 
fact,  Frisian  is  the  direct  ancestor  of  Scotch,  and 
Scotch  cattle-merchants  trade  there  without  difficulty. 
It  resembles  English  very  closely,  and  many  of  the 
words  are  identical.  Cheese  is  cheese,  not  "  kaas," 
as  in  Dutch;  and  these  fellow-travellers  assured  us, 
though  here  I  thought  I  caught  a  twinkle  in  their  eyes, 
that  the  dialect  poetry  of  Robert  Burns  is  greatly 
appreciated  in  Friesland.  We  had  a  most  interesting 


272  The  Spell  of  Holland 

talk  with  them  until  the  train  pulled  into  Leeuwarden, 
where  we  all  got  out.  We  saw  one  of  them  on  the 
street  afterwards  and  he  tipped  his  hat  to  us,  very 
pleased. 

Leeuwarden  is  the  capital  of  Friesland,  and  numbers 
some  thirty-five  thousand  inhabitants.  It  is  more 
bustling  and  prosperous  than  most  Dutch  towns,  and 
there  were  many  people  in  the  streets,  as  we  wended 
our  way  up  from  the  station  —  among  them  some 
Leeuwarden  orphans,  red  above  and  black  below. 
Amsterdam  divides  her  orphans  longitudinally;  Leeu- 
warden divides  hers  horizontally.  The  boys  wear  a 
red  coat  and  black  trousers;  the  girls  a  red  bodice 
and  black  skirt.  I  should  like  to  see  a  collection,  some 
time,  of  orphans  from  all  over  Holland.  It  would  be 
a  diverting  spectacle. 

We  wanted  to  see  first,  of  course,  the  famous  Frisian 
museum;  and  after  asking  the  way  two  or  three  times, 
made  a  vain  attempt  to  get  into  an  ornate  building  of 
red  and  white  brick,  which  looked  as  though  it  ought 
to  be  it.  But  the  door  was  locked,  and  finally  three 
or  four  people  came  out  and  told  us  that  this  was  not 
the  museum,  but  the  "  Kanselarij,"  or  Chancellery, 
and  that  the  museum  was  just  around  the  corner. 

The  Chancellery,  though,  was  worth  looking  at, 
for  a  gayer,  more  decorative  building,  I  have  never 
seen.  It  was  built  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century  as  a  law-court,  and  is  now  used  as  the  pro- 
vincial library  and  record-office,  being  open  to  visi- 
tors only  on  certain  days.  The  interior,  which  has 


Free  Frisia  273 

been  remodelled  to  suit  the  needs  of  its  present  use, 
is  not  worth  visiting,  but  its  exterior  is  most  inviting. 
It  is  two  stories  high,  and  surmounted  by  the  usual 
steep,  dormered  roof,  broken  by  a  stepped-gable,  each 
step  ornamented  by  a  figure  emblematic  of  good 
government,  with  Justice  looking  down  from  the  top- 
most pinnacle.  The  beautiful  stone  balustrade  guard- 
ing the  steps  which  lead  to  the  front  door  is  embellished 
with  four  lions  sitting  rampant  upon  it,  each  holding 
a  shield  between  its  paws. 

At  the  museum,  we  found  the  custodian,  M.  D. 
Draaisma,  very  glad  to  show  his  treasures  —  samples 
of  the  gold  and  silver  work  for  which  Leeuwarden  was 
once  noted;  Frisian  costumes  of  every  degree  of 
eccentricity;  Roman  remains  which  have  been  dug 
up  throughout  the  province;  a  remarkable  collection 
of  porcelain;  and  all  sorts  of  Dutch  utensils. 

Among  the  curiosities  preserved  here  are  some 
very  early  Frisian  tobacco  pipes,  for  the  Frisians  are 
said  to  have  been  the  first  Europeans  to  use  the  weed. 
They  certainly  use  it  industriously  enough  now.  And 
still  another  feature  is  a  series  of  rooms  arranged 
and  furnished  in  the  old  Frisian  manner,  with  tiled 
walls,  floors  of  red  and  brown  tiles,  furniture  gayly 
decorated  in  red  and  gold,  and  just  such  an  old  draped 
bed  as  you  will  see  in  Jan  Steen's  pictures.  There  is 
also  a  little  gallery  of  modern  Dutch  pictures,  with 
a  good  Mesdag  and  a  charming  Israels. 

Outside  of  the  museum,  there  are  not  many  things 
of  interest  at  Leeuwarden,  for  the  town  has  been 


274  The  Spell  of  Holland 

greatly  modernized.  The  old  walls  have  been  torn 
down  and  converted  into  boulevards,  and  even  the 
old  gates  have  been  destroyed.  A  canal  occupies  the 
place  of  the  moat,  and  follows  the  angles  and  con- 
volutions of  the  old  walls  in  a  most  amusing  way. 
The  weigh-house  is  a  picturesque  little  square  building 
by-lhe  side  of  a  wide  canal,  but  is  now  used  as  a 
fire-station.  The  stadhuis  is  comparatively  modern, 
but  has  a  wooden  staircase  with  a  finely  carved  bal- 
ustrade, and  a  most  impressive  old  council-room.  The 
walls  are  covered  with  Gobelin  tapestry,  and  there 
is  the  usual  long  table  for  the  councilmen,  with  the 
shining  inkwells  and  sanders  at  each  place,  and,  in 
addition,  a  pewter  match-holder.  Time  was  when  at 
each  place  a  long  clay  pipe,  ready  filled,  was  laid ;  but 
the  councillors  are  now  expected  to  provide  their  own 
pipes  and  tobacco.  Or  perhaps  cigars  have  displaced 
the  pipes. 

Across  the  street  from  the  stadhuis  is  the  so-called 
royal  palace,  the  residence  of  the  Stadholders  of  Fries- 
land  during  the  years  that  the  country  was  a  republic, 
and  now  the  residence  of  the  royal  commissioner  for 
Friesland.  It  looked  so  insignificant  that  we  did  not 
try  to  enter. 

We  did  not,  in  fact,  see  as  much  of  Leeu warden  as 
we  might  have  done,  for,  at  the  recommendation  of 
Mr.  Draaisma,  we  hunted  up  the  antique  shop  of  Mr. 
A.  C.  Billings.  We  wanted  a  mangle  —  one  of  those 
flat,  carved  pieces  of  wood  used  to  iron  with,  such  as 
we  had  seen  demonstrated  at  Marken;  and  Mr.  Bil- 


Free  Frisia  275 

lings  had  not  only  mangles,  but  so  many  other  beauti- 
ful and  interesting  things,  that  we  lingered  there 
unduly.  Betty  was  unable  to  resist  a  charming  little 
silver  tea-pot,  one  of  the  most  graceful  I  ever  saw,  so 
we  got  it,  and  it  formed  a  strange  excrescence  in  the 
side  of  the  "  chocolate-drop  "  until  we  got  to  our  lug- 
gage again  at  Brussels.  We  had  tea  out  of  that  tea- 
pot to-day,  and  it  brought  Leeuwarden  back  to  us  as  no 
pictures  could. 

It  is  curious  to  find  the  hatred  of  the  French  Revo- 
lutionists for  everything  royal  reaching  even  this  far, 
but  so  it  did;  for,  after  they  had  taken  possession  of 
the  country  and  founded  the  Batavian  Republic,  in 
1795,  they  sent  a  delegation  to  Leeuwarden  for  the 
purpose  of  destroying  the  tombs  of  the  old  Stadholders 
of  Friesland  in  the  Leeuwarden  Groote  Kerk.  The 
church  is  a  large  one,  but,  without  these  tombs,  of  no 
especial  interest. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  resemblance  between 
Frisian  and  English  has  been  exaggerated;  at  any 
rate,  we  found  mighty  few  people  who  could  under- 
stand our  English.  There  is  an  old  couplet, 

"  Good  butter  and  good  cheese 
Is  good  English  and  good  Friese." 

But,  so  far  as  we  could  tell,  the  resemblance  stops 
there.  Certainly  I  have  listened  to  Frisians  talking 
without  being  able  to  catch  a  familiar  word,  although 
there  seemed  to  be  a  lot  which  were  half- familiar. 
That  is,  at  a  distance  where  one  could  distinguish  the 


276  The  Spell  of  Holland 

sounds  but  not  the  words  it  seemed  that  the  language 
was  familiar;  but  the  harder  one  listened,  the  less 
familiar  it  grew. 

Nor,  so  far  as  we  could  see,  do  the  Friesland  women 
deserve  their  great  reputation  for  beauty.  They  are 
fresh  and  hearty,  they  look  as  though  they  would 
make  the  best  of  wives  and  mothers,  real  helpmates 
to  any  man;  their  features  are  regular,  and  all  that; 
but  they  lack  that  suggestion  of  the  spirituel  which  we 
Americans  consider  one  of  the  requisites  of  beauty. 
They  are  a  little  heavy  and  stolid;  I  fancy  that  their 
brains  do  not  move  quickly.  But  this  may  be  all 
wrong,  and  their  apparent  stolidity  merely  the  defence 
thrown  up  against  the  evident  curiosity  of  the  stranger. 
There  is  always  that  danger  in  trying  to  judge  a 
people  without  knowing  them  intimately. 

It  was  here  at  Leeu warden  that  M.  de  Amicis 
had  an  improving  conversation  concerning  the 
Frisian  headdress  with  a  lady  whose  maid  was 
brought  in  for  his  inspection.  I  cannot  forbear  quot- 
ing a  little. 

"  The  lady  of  the  house  rang  a  bell,"  writes  M.  de 
Amicis,  "  and  there  appeared  a  servant-maid  wearing 
a  lilac  gown  and  a  golden  helmet.  She  was  as  tall  as 
a  grenadier,  robust  as  an  athlete,  white  as  an  angel, 
haughty  as  a  princess.  Planting  herself  before  me, 
she  stood  with  head  erect  and  eyes  cast  down.  Her 
mistress  told  me  that  her  name  was  Sophia,  that  she 
was  eighteen  years  old,  and  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
her  casque  being  a  present  from  her  betrothed. 


Free  Frisia  277 

"  I  asked  what  metal  it  was  made  of. 

"  '  Of  gold,'  the  lady  answered,  with  a  slight  expres- 
sion of  surprise  at  the  question. 

"  '  Of  gold ! '  I  exclaimed.  '  Excuse  me,  but  will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  ask  how  much  it  cost  ?  ' 

"  The  lady  questioned  the  maid,  and  then  turning 
to  me,  said :  '  It  cost,  without  the  chain  and  pins,  three 
hundred  florins.' 

"  '  Six  hundred  francs ! '  cried  I.  '  Pard6n  me  once 
more ;  what  is  the  young  man's  profession?  ' 

"  '  He  is  a  wood-sawyer,'  answered  the  lady. 

"  *  A  wood-sawyer ! '  I  repeated ;  and  thought 
regretfully  of  the  size  of  the  book  I  should  have  to 
write  before  I  could  rival  the  magnificence  of  this 
wood-sawyer. 

"  '  They  do  not  all  have  them  of  gold,  however/  said 
the  lady.  *  The  lover  who  has  little  money  gives  a 
silver  casque.  Poor  women  and  girls  wear  casques 
of  gilded  copper,  or  very  thin  silver,  which  cost  a  few 
florins.  But  the  great  ambition  is  to  have  one  of  gold, 
and  with  this  purpose  in  view,  they  work,  and  save,  and 
sigh  for  years  together.  And  as  for  jealousy,  I,  who 
have  a  maid  with  a  gold  casque,  and  a  housemaid  with 
a  silver  casque,  can  tell  something  about  that.' ' 

The  casques  are  made  of  plate  so  thin  that  they  can 
easily  be  moulded  to  the  shape  of  the  head.  Some- 
times they  are  composed  of  two  halves,  meeting  in 
the  middle  of  the  forehead,  and  sometimes  of  a  single 
piece,  with  a  hole  in  the  centre  of  the  crown  to  give 
a  little  ventilation.  In  either  case,  the  hair  is  entirely 


278  The  Spell  of  Holland 

concealed,  and  when  too  abundant,  is  cut  off.  But  it 
is  not  usually  too  abundant,  for  the  casque  produces 
baldness,  and  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  it  is  being 
discarded  by  the  women  of  the  better  classes.  But 
it  is  still  generally  worn  by  the  peasants  and  farmers' 
wives.  A  tight  black  silk  cap  is  put  on  first,  under 
which  the  hair  is  tucked  up,  and  then  the  casque  is 
added,  and  finally  a  lace  cap,  with  a  frill  which  falls 
to  the  shoulders.  Often,  as  I  have  said  before,  a 
modern  be-flowered  bonnet  is  set  on  top  of  all  this, 
with  an  effect  sufficiently  startling. 

Leeuwarden  is  a  pleasant  centre  from  which  to  make 
excursions  to  a  number  of  villages  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, all  of  which  are  described  most  entertainingly  in 
a  little  guide-book  issued  by  the  "  Vereenigung  tot 
bevordering  von  vreemdelingenverkeer,"  of  Leeu- 
warden, and  full  not  only  of  quaint  English  but  of 
quaint  legends  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  quotes  some 
Frisian  poetry  about  Leeuwarden  which  confirms  me 
in  the  opinion  that  the  resemblance  between  English 
and  Frisian  is  largely  imaginary.  The  happy  lot  of 
the  Frisian  farmer  is  described,  who  "  if  the  struggle 
for  life  does  not  weigh  too  heavily  upon  him,  his  must 
be  a  life  happier  than  that  of  thousands  of  other 
people."  One  might  add  that  this  is  a  proposition  of 
universal  application. 

We  had  thought  of  going  on  to  Groningen,  but 
inquiry  developed  the  fact  that  it  is  too  large  and  too 
modern  —  albeit  it  dates  from  the  ninth  century 
—  to  be  of  interest,  so  we  turned  southward  to  Zwolle, 


Free  Frisia  279 

through  a  country  very  different  to  the  watery  Fries- 
land.  A  beautiful  avenue  of  old  trees  ran  along  a 
road  at  our  left  for  miles;  soon  other  trees  appeared 
in  clumps  and  groves;  the  fields  were  not  traversed 
by  canals  nor  cultivated  as  carefully  as  those  we  had 
heretofore  seen  in  Holland.  Then  we  passed  through 
wide  marshes  and  peat  land ;  with  mowers  working  on 
every  little  strip  firm  enough  to  afford  foothold,  and 
with  goats  tethered  along  the  railway  and  on  little 
strips  to  eat  the  grass  which  was  not  worth  mowing. 
For  the  first  time  in  Holland,  we  ran  through  a  long, 
deep  cut,  with  the  banks  on  either  side  clothed  in 
broom. 

After  Heerenveen,  there  were  few  houses,  and  the 
country  was  apparently  very  poor,  with  scarcely  any 
cattle  in  the  fields,  and  the  hay  only  a  few  inches  in 
height,  —  not  worth  mowing,  one  would  think,  and 
yet  the  mowers  were  busy  getting  it  down,  fairly  shav- 
ing the  ground  in  their  anxiety  to  get  it  all.  Men  and 
women  mere  working  in  couples,  raking  it  up  and 
carrying  it  off  to  invisible  houses  on  queer  wagons, 
with  the  horse  fifteen  feet  in  front,  and  attached  to 
the  wagon  with  rope  harness  of  the  most  primitive 
sort.  And  all  around  were  stacked  bricks  of  brown 
peat,  which  had  been  cut  from  little  mounds  on  the 
surface  of  the  ground.  Peat  is  the  principal  product 
of  this  province  of  Drenthe,  which,  without  it,  would 
be  little  more  than  a  succession  of  bogs  covered  with 
dwarf  oak  and  pine.  Of  late  years,  some  efforts  have 
been  made  to  convert  the  exhausted  peat-fields  into 


280  The  Spell  of  Holland 

meadows  and  farm-land,  but  it  is  a  task  before  which 
even  the  Dutch  falter. 

The  country  grew  gradually  wilder  and  more 
deserted,  as  the  train  rumbled  on.  Nothing  was  to 
be  seen  on  either  hand  but  a  wild  and  boggy  solitude, 
with  broad  mounds  here  and  there,  which  the  ancient 
Celts  or  Germans  heaped  up  to  build  their  huts  on  in 
days  before  the  land  was  protected  with  dykes  from  the 
inundations  of  Lake  Flevo.  Ancient  remains  are 
found  all  through  here,  proving  that  this  country  was 
at  some  distant  time  inhabited  by  Romans,  by  Huns, 
by  Celts,  and  by  no  one  knows  what  other  mysterious 
tribes.  The  country  itself  looks  dark  and  mysterious, 
and  the  customs  of  the  people  differ  greatly  from  those 
of  Western  Holland. 

A  few  miles  beyond  Meppel,  the  train  passes  the 
old  village  of  Staphorst,  where  the  ancient  Frisian 
manners  and  costumes  are  said  to  be  religiously  pre- 
served; and  where  the  men  so  abhor  idleness  that, 
when  they  meet  to  consult  concerning  the  affairs  of 
the  village,  each  man  brings  his  knitting,  in  order  that 
his  hands  may  be  always  busy.  We  have  entered  the 
province  of  Over-Ijssel,  and  the  country  gradually 
assumes  again  an  aspect  of  civilization,  until  we  are 
once  more  in  a  land  of  tree-bordered  roads,  and  red- 
roofed  villages. 

Dusk  was  falling  as  we  reached  Zwolle;  and  after 
dinner  at  the  Kaiserkroon,  with  its  queer  old  winding 
staircase,  and  great,  high-ceilinged  rooms,  we  strolled 
about  the  clean  and  lively  streets ;  looking  in  the  shop- 


Free  Frisia  281 

windows,  and  chaffering  for  a  box  of  wax  night- 
lights,  such  as  we  had  seen  used  most  effectively  in 
the  halls  of  the  Poort  van  Cleve  at  Enkhuisen.  We 
had  quite  an  exciting  time  getting  them,  as  the  girl 
in  the  shop  had  to  take  down  practically  the  whole 
stock  of  goods  before  she  found  what  we  wanted. 
She  was  most  good-natured  about  it,  and  two  or  three 
other  customers  insisted  on  waiting  and  helping  her 
guess,  until  the  matter  was  settled.  I  think  it  was 
a  sort  of  picnic  for  all  of  them. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ZWOLLE 

THE  weather  god  was  surely  good  to  us  in  Holland ! 
One  fine  day  followed  another,  with  just  an  interlude 
of  rain  now  and  then  to  lay  the  dust  and  freshen 
things  up.  From  which  fact  I  would  argue  that  the 
months  of  June  and  July  are  the  best  possible  in  which 
to  visit  the  country  —  even  without  the  strawberries ! 
Before  that  I  am  told  the  weather  is  apt  to  be  cold 
and  rainy,  and  later  in  the  summer  the  canals  grow 
offensive,  at  least  in  the  larger  towns.  The  temper- 
ature of  June  and  July  is  perfect  for  sight-seeing,  not 
so  cold  as  to  be  uncomfortable,  nor  so  warm  as  to  be 
enervating.  We  found  that  a  light  wrap,  such  as  a 
raincoat,  usually  felt  very  good. 

In  Dutch,  the  letter  w  is  pronounced  like  our  v,  so 
Zwolle  is  pronounced  Zvolle.  The  next  morning  was 
bright  and  pleasant,  but  before  sallying  out  we 
watched,  from  the  windows  of  our  room,  an  interest- 
ing exhibition  of  the  Dutch  love  of  cleanliness.  Across 
the  street  from  us,  in  front  of  a  shop  of  some  sort, 
was  a  sidewalk  composed  of  black  and  white  slabs, 
laid  in  pattern  and  artistically  fitted  together;  and 
this  sidewalk,  no  doubt,  was  the  especial  pride  of  the 
wife  of  that  shopkeeper  and  of  her  servants.  At  any 

282 


Zwolle  283 

rate,  one  of  the  servants  —  or  perhaps  it  was  the  house- 
wife herself  —  was  out  scrubbing  it  with  soap  and 
water,  and  then  wiping  it  dry  with  a  cloth.  And 
after  she  got  the  sidewalk  scrubbed,  she  went  on  and 
scrubbed  the  cobbles  of  the  street  some  distance  out 
from  the  gutter,  using  an  immense  amount  of  water, 
which  she  dipped  up  from  a  cistern  under  the  side- 
walk, through  a  round  opening  such  as,  with  us,  indi- 
cates a  coal-chute. 

When  wre  came  out  from  breakfast,  she  was  still  at 
it,  giving  the  sidewalk  a  few  final  touches,  and  I  got  a 
picture  of  her,  which  you  will  find  opposite  the  pre- 
ceding page ;  —  a  scene  made  more  characteristically 
Dutch  by  the  windmill  towering  above  the  trees  at  the 
end  of  the  street. 

We  went  first  to  the  morning  marKet,  a  gay  assem- 
blage of  many-coloured  vegetables  under  little  tents, 
with  white-capped  women  in  attendance,  and  great 
piles  of  yellow  carrots  striking  the  predominant  note. 
Carrots  seem  to  be  a  favourite  food  all  over  Holland, 
perhaps  because  they  are  cheap,  and  the  children  eat 
them  raw.  When  they  get  hungry  and  run  to  their 
mother  for  something  to  eat,  instead  of  getting  a 
slice  of  bread  and  jam,  as  with  us,  they  get  a  raw 
carrot.  They  resemble  American  children,  however, 
in  that  they  take  the  carrot  and  sit  down  on  the  front 
step  to  eat  it. 

The  strawberries  and  red-raspberries  at  the  market 
were  especially  luscious-looking ;  but  all  the  vegetables 
and  fruits  were  attractive,  their  natural  beauty  being 


284  The  Spell  of  Holland 

enhanced  by  the  tasteful  way  in  which  they  were 
arranged.  The  arrangement  of  one  of  these  stalls 
is,  indeed,  quite  a  work  of  art,  and  must  take  consider- 
able study,  to  say  nothing  of  a  great  amount  of  time! 

At  one  side  of  the  market,  a  number  of  milkmaids 
had  stationed  their  little  carts,  with  a  can  in  either  end, 
and  the  dog  lying  on  the  pavement  beneath  taking  a 
nap,  and  were  ladling  out  the  milk  to  customers;  but 
their  cans,  instead  of  being  of  burnished  copper,  as  in 
South  Holland,  were  merely  of  painted  tin.  We 
came  to  the  conclusion,  after  tasting  milk  all  over 
Holland,  that  the  big  Frisian  cows  are  remarkable  for 
the  quantity  they  give,  rather  than  for  its  quality ;  for 
the  milk  everywhere  seemed  thin  and  lacking  in  rich- 
ness. 

There  is  a  Catholic  church  at  Zwolle,  with  a  beauti- 
fully-carved marble  altar-rail,  and  especially  impress- 
ive with  its  decorated  pillars  and  High  Altar  and 
shrines  about  the  walls  after  the  white  nakedness  of 
the  Protestant  churches  we  had  been  seeing,  and  which 
we  saw  again  as  soon  as  we  entered  the  Groote  Kerk 
in  the  market-place.  Groote  Kerk,  let  me  explain,  is 
the  generic  name  for  the  principal  church  of  all  Dutch 
towns;  but  all  of  the  old  ones  were  originally  dedi- 
cated to  some  saint,  the  tutelary  divinity  of  that  at 
Zwolle  being  Saint  Michael.  But  of  course  no  Dutch 
Reformed  church  could  be  named  after  a  saint;  so 
they  are  now  all  "  Groote  Kerks "  or  "  Nieuwe 
Kerks,"  or  "  Oude  Kerks."  When  there  are  more 
than  three  churches  in  a  town,  and  the  above  names 


Zwolle  285 

have  been  exhausted,  they  name  the  others  from  the 
points  of  the  compass  —  Westerkerk,  Oosterkerk,  and 
so  on. 

The  one  at  Zwolle  is  a  great  Gothic  structure  of 
brick,  without  transepts,  and  with  the  aisles  as  high 
as  the  nave,  or  with  three  naves  of  equal  height,  if 
you  prefer  to  put  it  that  way.  A  few  remnants  of  the 
old  frescoing  have  been  uncovered,  and  the  koster  calls 
attention  with  especial  pride  to  the  carved  pulpit, 
dating  from  1617,  and  one  of  the  most  elaborate  we 
have  seen  anywhere.  It  is  supported  by  a  huddle  of 
fantastic  legs,  and  the  rail  along  the  little  stair  by 
which  one  mounts  into  it  is  a  marvel  of  carving.  He 
insisted  that  I  go  up  in  order  to  see  it,  but  I  was  more 
interested  in  the  effect  of  the  huddled  pews  below,  with 
the  white  walls  back  of  them. 

The  staircase  in  the  tower  is  also  pointed  out  with 
pride.  It  is  a  beautiful  spiral,  with  the  steps  fitted 
together  so  cunningly  that  they  support  each  other, 
without  the  usual  central  pillar,  so  that,  looking  up,  one 
can  see  them  winding  around  and  around  clear  to  the 
top  of  the  tower.  I  dare  say  the  builder  of  that  stair 
was  a  proud  man  when  he  got  it  done  and  found  it 
would  hold  together. 

The  west  end  of  the  church  is,  as  usual,  shut  off 
by  a  great  organ.  The  koster  led  us  up  a  broad  flight 
of  steps  under  it,  and  enjoyed  our  surprise  when  he 
opened  a  door  and  showed  us  into  a  handsome  meeting- 
room  for  the  vestry,  or  whatever  the  governing  body 
of  the  church  is  called.  On  the  wall  is  a  tablet  of 


286  The  Spell  of  Holland 

stone  in  which  are  cut  the  names  of  all  the  pastors 
of  the  church,  beginning  in  1579,  when  it  was  taken 
from  the  Catholics  and  converted  into  a  Protestant 
place  of  worship;  and  in  the  cases  about  the  walls 
are  all  the  church  records,  starting  the  same  year.  I 
wonder  how  many  other  Protestant  churches  can  trace 
their  history  back  so  far?  The  old  fellow,  in  clacking 
wooden  shoes,  who  showed  us  around  the  church,  was 
certainly  proud  of  it,  and  insisted  that  we  inspect  all 
its  treasures.  He  saw  that  I  carried  a  camera,  and 
was  not  content  until  I  had  taken  a  picture  of  the 
pulpit  which  he  thought  so  remarkable.  You  will 
find  the  picture  opposite  this  page. 

The  stadhuis  is  near-by,  and  contains,  as  moit  stad- 
huises  do,  an  impressive  council-chamber,  witht^tapes- 
tried  walls  and  tapestry-upholstered  furniturejirlVari- 
ous  carved  figures  supporting  the  roof  are  sakbto  be 
caricatures  of  the  famous  councilmen  of  Kampen, 
of  whom  we  shall  hear  more,  by  and  by. 

Zwolle  is  the  capital  of  the  province  of 
and  is  rather  an  important  town,  very  pretty  •Irafc^very 
clean,  but  not  especially  quaint.  It  was  the  fofrthplace 
of  Gerard  ter  Borch,  but  has  none  of  his  p'ffin&ngs; 
and  Thomas  a  Kempis  lies  in  the  Catholic  chdifch  of 
St.  Michael  —  named  for  the  old  one  which /is  3(3ath- 
olic  no  more  —  under  a  modern  monument  of^ft^rble. 
It  was  at  the  monastery  of  the  Agnetenberg^qafeout 
three  miles  away,  where  a  Kempis  lived  for  overffoalf  a 
century,  that  he  wrote  his  "  Imitation  of  Christ." 
Zwolle  also  has  a  link  with  America  in  the  fact  that 


THE    PULPIT,    GROOTE    KERK,    ZWOLLE. 


Zwolle  287 

Baron  Capellen,  who  did  so  much  to  bring  about  the 
recognition  of  our  independence  by  Holland  at  a  time 
when  such  recognition  meant  a  great  deal  to  us,  lived 
here,  and  the  Holland  Society  of  New  York  has 
recently  marked  his  house  with  a  bronze  tablet. 

Like  most  other  Dutch  towns  of  a  certain  size, 
Zwolle  has  a  little  paard-tram  which  runs  clanging 
along  the  streets  from  the  station  to  the  opposite  out- 
skirts. We  went  out  on  this  to  its  terminus,  and  then 
had  a  pleasant  walk  along  a  canal  gay  with  water-lilies, 
to  some  old  windmills  used  for  grinding  grain.  I 
went  into  one  of  them,  and  found  the  apparatus  to 
be  most  primitive.  The  sails  are  geared  to  a  long 
beam  which  runs  down  through  the  mill,  and  to  its 
lower  end  a  short  crossbeam  is  attached,  at  either  "end 
of  which  is  a  large  mill-stone,  set  on  edge,  and  resting 
on  another  great  stone,  which  lies  flat.  As  the  sails 
revolve,  the  upper  stones  are  rolled  around  and  around 
over  the  lower  one,  on  which  the  grain  is  spread,  a 
little  wooden  rail  keeping  it  from  working  off  the 
edge.  The  flour  which  results  is  very  coarse,  as  may 
well  be  imagined,  but  I  fancy  it  is  more  nutritious 
and  healthful  than  our  own  screened  and  bolted  prod- 
uct. To  look  up  and  up  into  the  dim  vastness  over- 
head is  most  impressive. 

I  have  said  somewhere  that  the  windmill  is  reputed 
to  be  one  of  the  things  brought  back  from  Palestine 
by  the  Crusaders.  If  this  is  true,  the  Crusades  were 
certainly  well  worth  to  Holland  what  they  cost  her; 
for  the  windmill  has  done  more  than  anything  else  to 


288  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

develop  the  country.  Indeed,  but  for  her  windmills 
pumping  and  pumping,  Holland,  as  we  know  it  to-day, 
would  not  exist.  And  the  Dutch,  who  have  more 
than  average  mechanical  ingenuity,  and  who  are  never 
so  happy  as  when  they  are  employing  it,  have  brought 
the  windmill  to  a  very  high  state  of  efficiency.  Their 
greatest  improvement  is  the  movable  top,  by  which  the 
sails  may  be  swung  around  to  meet  the  wind  from  any 
direction;  and  after  that,  perhaps,  the  sails  of  canvas, 
which  are  spread  on  a  light  framework,  and  which 
may  be  reefed,  so  that  the  speed  of  the  mill  may  be 
controlled,  however  hard  the  wind  blows. 

There  is  almost  always  a  balcony  around  the  mill, 
about  a  third  of  the  way  up,  and  on  this  is  a  cogged 
rail  in  which  a  notched  wheel  works,  by  means  of 
which  the  sails  are  adjusted  to  any  angle,  and  then 
locked  in  position.  If  you  will  look  at. the  picture 
opposite  page  60,  you  will  see  what  I  mean,  and  see 
also  how  a  mill  looks  with  all  sails  furled.  To  spread 
the  sails,  a  rope  is  pulled,  which  draws  them  out  to 
the  edge  of  the  framework  of  the  sail-arms,  which  you 
will  notice  in  the  same  picture.  Mills  vary  in  size  from 
mere  toys  rattling  around  in  a  low  field  and  pumping 
the  water  out  of  a  little  ditch  into  another  a  few 
inches  higher,  to  mammoth  structures  guarding  a 
great  polder  and  with  room  in  the  lower  story  for 
the  family  of  the  mill-master  to  live.  There  is  a 
most  impressive  one  near  the  Oostpoort  at  Rotterdam ; 
and  a  beautiful  one  near  the  canal  on  the  way  to 
Delft,  which  is  the  one  shown  in  the  picture  I  have 


Zwolle  289 

just  referred  to,  and  the  reason  the  sails  are  furled 
is  because  that  picture  was  taken  on  Sunday;  still 
another  of  vast  dimensions  overlooking  the  Steen 
Straat  at  Leiden,  which  you  will  see  opposite  page  1 54, 
and  as  the  wind  was  very  strong  at  the  time  that 
picture  was  taken,  the  sails  of  the  mill  were  reefed 
up  a  little.  But  to  attempt  to  enumerate  the  big  wind- 
mills in  Holland  is  an  absurd  task.  I  was  never  weary 
of  watching  their  great  sails  whirling  about  in  the 
distance,  looking  for  all  the  world  as  though  they 
were  walking  across  the  country  with  seven-league 
boots. 

Just  across  from  the  Zwolle  grist-mill  is  a  soap- 
factory,  where  the  oil  is  pressed  from  linseed  to  make 
glycerine  soap.  The  proprietor  was  standing  outside 
and  I  stopped  to  talk  with  him,  while  Betty  wandered 
on  along  the  canal  in  search  of  flowers.  He  was  a 
graduate  of  the  University  of  Leiden,  and  proud  of 
his  English,  which  was  really  very  good.  He  was 
much  interested  to  learn  that  we  had  seen  the  celebra- 
tion there,  which  he  himself  had  not  been  able  to 
attend.  His  face  grew  sad  when  he  told  me  this,  and 
I  inferred  that  the  soap  business  was  not  as  prosper- 
ous as  could  be  wished.  I  fail  to  understand,  how- 
ever, how  this  could  be,  as  I  should  imagine  that 
the  factories  would  be  hard  put  to  it  to  meet  the  de- 
mand. 

We  made  our  way  slowly  back  to  the  town ;  watch- 
ing some  great  barges  of  peat  getting  emptied  of 
their  brown,  brick-shaped  cargo;  looking  in  the  win- 


290  The  SpeU  of  Holland 

dows,  exchanging  greetings  with  various  and  sundry 
people,  and  stopping  to  laugh  at  some  school  children 
playing  among  the  trees  about  the  Groote  Kerk,  so 
interested  in  their  game  —  a  game  very  much  like 
our  own  hide-and-seek  —  that  they  did  not  heed  the 
recall-bell,  and  the  master  had  to  come  out  to  chase 
them  back  to  their  lessons.  Then  we  went  around 
to  the  hotel  for  the  "  chocolate-drop,"  bade  good-bye  to 
the  proprietor,  who  accompanied  us  with  many  bows 
to  the  front  door,  and  loitered  along  toward  the  sta- 
tion, stopping  on  the  way  for  a  look  at  the  towering 
Sassenpoort,  a  Gothic  gateway,  once  part  of  the  old 
walls,  with  four  tall  towers  with  pointed  roofs,  and  a 
central  dominating  spire,  with  a  clock.  This  tower 
once  possessed  a  peal  of  bells,  but  they  were  sold  to 
the  burgesses  of  Amsterdam,  and  placed  in  the  tower 
of  the  Westerkerk  there.  To  vex  the  thrifty  council- 
men  of  Zwolle,  the  purchase-price  was  paid  in  copper 
money,  and  it  took  so  long  to  count  it  that  the  fingers 
of  the  counters  turned  blue,  from  which  fact  the 
inhabitants  of  Zwolle  are  even  yet  nicknamed  "  blauw- 
vingers."  This  same  Sassenpoort  is  said  to  have 
served  as  a  trap  to  Charles  Egmont,  Duke  of  Guel- 
dres,  who  came  one  day  to  Zwolle,  with  his  army 
back  of  him,  determined  to  exact  tribute  from  the  city. 
The  crafty  Zwollenarens  hoisted  the  outer  portcullis, 
and  as  soon  as  the  Duke  rode  under,  dropped  it  again, 
and  he  found  himself  in  a  cage  between  the  outer  and 
inner  gates.  To  save  his  life  and  regain  his  liberty, 
he  was  compelled  to  sign  a  treaty  most  favourable  to 


THE    SASSENPOORT,    ZWOLLE. 


Zwolle  291 

the  town,  and  to  confirm  it  by  giving  as  a  hostage  his 
eldest  son. 

The  old  gate  is  now  crowded  all  about  by  houses, 
and  is  used  as  a  storehouse  for  the  city  archives.  I 
took  a  picture  of  it,  and  a  delivery-man  who  was 
gossiping  with  his  best  girl  at  a  door  near-by,  brought 
her  out  to  see  me  do  it,  and  I  let  them  look  through 
the  finder,  and  they  were  as  interested  and  amused 
as  children;  and  we  parted  with  nods  and  smiles  all 
around. 

Soon  afterwards,  we  were  on  the  train  for  Kampen, 
rolling  through  a  flat  and  fertile  country,  real  Holland 
again,  with  men  and  women  working  together  in  the 
fields,  tossing  the  hay  about  to  dry,  or  loading  it  into 
the  characteristic  high-hipped,  broad-beamed  wagons, 
black  without  and  blue  within.  The  men  wore  scant 
knee-breeches,  matching  the  inside  of  the  wagons  in 
colour. 

Then  the  train  stopped,  we  emerged  upon  the  plat- 
form, gave  the  "  chocolate-drop  "  to  the  runner  for  the 
Pays-Bas,  crossed  the  great  bridge  over  the  wide  Ijssel, 
and  were  at  last  in  famous  Kampen  —  a  town  so 
remarkable  that  it  deserves  a  new  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    CITY    FATHERS   OF   KAMPEN 

THE  Dutch  have  many  proverbs.  If  they  say  of  a 
man,  "  He  comes  from  Boxum,"  they  mean  that  he 
is  a  good  fighter.  (I  suspect  some  relationship  between 
Boxum  and  our  word  for  a  fistic  contest!)  If  they 
say,  "  He  comes  from  Urk,"  they  mean  that  he  is 
moody,  fond  of  solitude,  a  hermit.  If  they  say,  "  He 
comes  from  Kampen,"  they  mean  he  is  a  fool. 

How  did  Kampen  get  this  reputation?  No  one, 
I  suppose,  will  ever  know;  but  all  the  foolish  things 
that  are  done  in  Holland,  or  ever  have  been  done 
there,  are  attributed  to  Kampen. 

For  instance : 

The  Spanish  army  was  advancing  upon  Kampen 
and  the  villagers  determined  to  save  the  town-bell, 
which  the  Spaniards  always  destroyed,  whenever  they 
entered  a  place,  because  it  was  a  sort  of  emblem  of 
liberty.  So  the  bell  was  hastily  loaded  into  a  boat 
and  rowed  out  into  the  Zuyder  Zee  and  thrown  over- 
board. 

"But  hold,"  said  one.  "How  shall  we  find  it 
again?  " 

"  Fool,"  retorted  another,  "  by  marking  the  place 
292 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        293 

where  we  threw  it  over,"  and  he  took  out  his  knife 
and  cut  a  notch  in  the  gunwale  of  the  boat. 

"  How  clever !  "  the  others  murmured  in  admiration, 
and  rowed  back  to  shore  well-satisfied. 

Or  again : 

One  night  there  was  a  fire  at  Kampen ;  and  when  the 
little  hand-engine  was  trundled  to  the  scene,  and  an 
attempt  made  to  start  it,  it  was  found  to  be  out  of 
order,  so  that  the  fire  blazed  away  unchecked.  The 
next  night  the  town  council  met  in  special  session, 
to  consider  the  matter.  There  was  much  argument, 
accusations  of  carelessness,  counter-accusations  of 
neglect  of  duty,  talk  of  trials  and  impeachments;  but 
at  last  the  burgomeester  rapped  for  silence  and  arose 
to  his  feet. 

"  Brother  councilmen,"  he  said,  "  it  is  worse  than 
useless  to  waste  time  in  lamenting  the  errors  of  the 
past.  Our  duty  is  to  provide  for  the  future.  We 
must  take  care  that  never  again  shall  we  incur  such 
disgrace  as  we  did  last  night.  Hereafter  we  must 
make  sure  that  our  apparatus  is  ready  for  every  fire." 

:<  Yes  —  but  how,  how  ?  "  clamoured  the  council- 
men. 

"  Very  easily,"  responded  the  burgomeester,  swell- 
ing out  his  chest.  "  You  have  only  to  adopt  a  reso- 
lution that,  on  the  evening  preceding  every  fire,  the 
apparatus  shall  be  thoroughly  overhauled." 

He  sat  down  amidst  thunders  of  applause,  and  the 
resolution  was  passed  forthwith.  I  presume  it  is  still 
in  force. 


294  The  Spell  of  Holland 

It  is  in  caricature  of  these  councilmen  that  the  gro- 
tesques on  the  Zwolle  stadhuis  were  designed.  But 
that  may  have  been  merely  jealousy. 

The  protective  tariff  idea  had  its  origin  at  Kampen 
in  this  same  council  chamber,  some  hundreds  of  years 
ago,  when  one  of  the  councilmen  arose  and  announced 
that  he  had  devised  a  plan  whereby  the  city  taxes 
could  be  entirely  abrogated,  and  the  expenses  of 
adminstration  exacted  wholly  from  foreigners.  This 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  and  he  was  urged  to 
explain  himself. 

"  It  is  very  simple,"  he  said.  "  We  will  place  an 
officer  at  each  of  the  city  gates,  who  will  collect  a  tax 
upon  everything  brought  into  the  city.  This  tax  will 
be  regulated  so  that  in  time  it  will  meet  all  our  ex- 
penses ;  and,  as  you  can  readily  see,  it  will  be  paid,  not 
by  our  citizens,  but  by  the  outsiders  who  bring  in 
things  to  sell  to  us." 

(I  seem  to  be  writing  a  protective  tariff  speech  of 
the  type  which  the  average  spellbinder  used  so  effect- 
ively twenty  years  ago,  and  which  we  have  only 
recently  outgrown.) 

The  suggestion  was  adopted  by  acclamation,  and  the 
suggestor  hailed  as  the  greatest  economist  of  the  age. 
Officials  were  appointed  to  collect  the  tax;  usually 
they  were  relatives  or  dependents  of  the  councilmen, 
and  the  salaries  were  very  liberal.  An  accounting 
system  had  also  to  be  installed,  with  a  superintendent 
and  clerks  and  assistants;  and,  on  the  whole,  the  col- 
lecting of  the  tax  gave  profitable  employment  to  a 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        295 

surprisingly  large  number  of  people.  There  were 
some  who  grumbled  at  this,  and  who  claimed  that 
more  people  were  employed  than  were  really  needed; 
but  it  was  pointed  out  to  these  grumblers  that  the 
distribution  of  salaries  added  just  so  much  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  town,  since  these  salaries  were  after- 
wards spent  for  food  and  clothing  and  house-rent, 
and  other  things  of  the  same  sort;  and  so  the  larger 
the  number  of  such  salaries,  the  greater  the  town's 
prosperity. 

Time  passed,  and  the  system  seemed  to  be  working 
very  well.  It  is  true  that  everything  cost  more  in 
Kampen  than  elsewhere,  but  nobody  knew  just  why. 
Least  of  all  did  the  Kampeners  suspect  that  it  was 
really  their  money  which  the  officials  were  collecting 
at  the  various  gates,  and  that  all  the  producers  within 
the  city  had  put  their  prices  up  to  the  level  which 
the  importers  had  to  charge.  So  everything  was 
serene  and  the  councilmen,  with  the  support  and 
assistance  of  the  tax-collectors,  were  all  re-elected. 

Then  came  the  great  coup.  Councilman  X.  an- 
nounced, one  evening,  that  he  had  a  project  of  the 
first  importance  to  lay  before  the  honourable  body, 
and  the  burgomeester  prayed  him  to  proceed. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  it  is  now  one  year  since 
our  new  system  of  taxation  went  into  effect;  and 
we  have  seen  how  admirable  it  is.  We  have  been  able 
to  do  away  entirely  with  any  tax  upon  our  citizens. 
Of  no  other  city  in  the  whole  world  can  the  same 
be  said!" 


296 The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  Hear,  hear !  "  cried  the  crowd  outside  the  railing. 

"  We  have  collected  two  hundred  thousand  gulden," 
proceeded  Councilman  X.,  "  forty  thousand  at  each 
of  the  five  city  gates.  This  sum  has  met  all  the  ex- 
penses of  administration;  so  that,  as  I  have  said,  it 
has  not  been  necessary  to  tax  the  people  of  this  city 
one  cent." 

"  True !  true !  hurrah !  "  yelled  the  crowd. 

"  I  have  now,"  continued  Councilman  X.,  looking 
about  him  with  a  proud  glance,  "  to  lay  before  this 
honourable  body  a  proposition  whereby  our  yearly 
income  may  be  doubled." 

"Whoopee!  "  yelled  the  populace.  Even  the  coun- 
cilmen  were  excited. 

"  We  shall  then,"  went  on  the  speaker,  "  have  the 
sum  of  two  hundred  thousand  gulden  to  expend  for 
the  beautification  of  our  already  incomparable  city. 
We  shall  give  work  to  our  poor,  and  homes  to  those 
too  old  to  work;  we  can  maintain  a  municipal  band 
and  give  free  concerts;  we  can  enlarge  our  harbour 
and  increase  our  commerce,  for,  by  increasing  our 
commerce,  we  increase  our  income;  we  can  make  this 
the  best  place  on  earth  to  live  in." 

"  But  how,"  someone  asked,  "  do  you  propose  to 
double  our  income  ?  " 

"  Very  simply,"  said  Councilman  X.  "  We  now 
collect  forty  thousand  gulden  at  each  of  our  five  gates. 
I  propose  to  double  the  number  of  gates,  and  thereby 
double  our  income." 

The  people  went  mad.     The  plan  was  so  easy,  so 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        297 

simple!  Why  had  it  never  before  occurred  to  anyone? 
But  then  it  is  the  simple  things  which  never  do  occur 
to  anyone ! 

"  But,"  suggested  someone,  "  why  not  quadruple 
the  gates  and  thereby  quadruple  our  income  ?  " 

Councilman  X.  eyed  the  speaker  sternly  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said.    "  We  must  not  be  avaricious !" 

And  his  fellow-townsmen  recognized  the  fact  that 
he  had  a  great  heart  as  well  as  a  great  mind! 

That  council  chamber  remains  to-day  as  it  was 
then  —  a  thing  of  beauty.  We  shall  visit  it  presently. 

Kampen  is  a  very  ancient  town,  dating  from  the 
years  when  the  Romans  built  a  "  camp  "  on  the  spot 
where  the  present  city  stands.  This  camp  grew  in 
importance  with  the  passing  years,  as  settlements  at 
a  river's  mouth  have  a  way  of  doing,  and  when  the 
Zuyder  Zee  burst  over  the  land  and  brought  the  com- 
merce of  the  world  to  its  quays,  it  started  upon  a 
great  career.  But,  alas,  its  harbour  silted  up,  like 
all  the  others,  it  dwindled  and  shrunk,  until  it  is 
now  a  quiet  little  place  of  perhaps  twenty  thousand 
—  a  gem  of  a  city,  for  which  there  will  always  be 
a  warm  place  in  my  heart.  For  its  people  are  the 
kindest,  and  its  old  stadhuis  the  handsomest,  and  its 
costumes  the  quaintest,  and  the  country  round  it  the 
charmingest;  and  that  old  inn,  the  Pays-Bas,  almost 
like  home! 

"  No  man  is  so  comfortable  in  an  inn  as  he  is  at 


298  The  Spell  of  Holland 

home,"  its  proprietor  said  to  me.  "  But  we  make  him 
as  comfortable  here  as  we  can." 

And  it  is  very  comfortable  indeed. 

"  Pays-Bas  "  divides  with  "  Doelen  "  the  honours 
of  popularity  as  the  name  for  a  Dutch  inn.  I  have 
already  explained  the  derivation  of  "  doelen."  "  Pays- 
Bas,"  of  course,  means  Low  Countries,  though  why 
it  should  be  expressed  in  French  and  not  in  Dutch 
I  do  not  know.  Many  of  us  remember  how  most  of 
the  cities  of  this  favoured  land  of  ours  at  one  time 
boasted  a  "United  States"  hotel.  With  us  that 
fashion  has  passed,  but  it  still  persists  in  Holland. 

It  is  really  the  Rhine  which  you  see  flowing  before 
you  as  you  leave  the  station,  although  it  is  called  the 
Ijssel;  but  this  water  which  hurries  by  so  swiftly  has 
come  all  the  way  from  Switzerland,  past  Mayence, 
and  between  the  vineyards,  and  around  the  Lorelei, 
and  so  on  past  Cologne,  until  here  it  is  hastening  to 
its  final  plunge  into  the  Zuyder  Zee.  It  is  very  wide, 
and  the  bridge  across  it  is  a  beautiful  one,  built  for 
eternity. 

We  followed  our  porter  over  it,  and  through  the 
narrow  streets  beyond,  shadowed  by  old  buildings  and 
great  churches,  past  the  stadhuis,  and  at  last  we  came 
to  the  Pays-Bas  and  were  made  welcome.  M. 
Breijinck,  the  proprietor  of  the  Pays-Bas,  is  a  de- 
scendant of  one  of  those  Huguenots  who,  driven  from 
France  by  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  fled 
to  Holland  as  a  country  where  they  might  worship 
God  in  any  way  they  chose.  In  spite  of  the  lapse 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        299 

of  centuries,  M.  Breijinck  is  still  essentially  a  French- 
man. Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  he  makes  so  admira- 
ble an  inn-keeper. 

At  first,  I  noticed  that  he  looked  at  us  with  great 
attention,  and  when,  some  time  later,  I  was  chatting 
with  him  in  the  billiard-room,  he  rather  sheepishly 
got  an  envelope  out  of  his  pocket,  extracted  a  printed 
circular  from  it,  and  passed  it  over  for  me  to  read. 

"  I  received  that  to-day,"  he  said,  and  watched  me 
while  I  read  it. 

It  was  from  the  Pinkerton  Detective  Agency,  of 
New  York,  and  offered  a  reward  of  a  thousand 
dollars  for  the  arrest  of  an  absconder  who  had  got 
away  from  New  York  with  a  lot  of  money  belonging 
to  an  express  company,  and  who  was  supposed  to  be 
accompanied  by  his  paramour.  The  description  fitted 
Betty  and  me  to  the  least  detail,  and  there  was  a 
half-tone  reproduction  of  a  photograph  of  the  ab- 
sconder which  looked  exceedingly  like  me. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  laughing,  "  if  I  were  you,  I'd  go 
tell  the  police.  Remember,  a  thousand  dollars  —  that 
is  twenty-five  hundred  gulden  —  a  sum  not  to  be 
sneezed  at." 

"  No,"  he  agreed,  and  regarded  me  for  a  while 
longer  with  puzzled  eyes.  Then  his  face  cleared. 
"  But  I  do  not  think  you  are  the  man." 

I  let  it  go  at  that;  but  I  secretly  hoped  he  would 
tell  the  police.  Perhaps  he  did;  and  they  may  have 
taken  a  look  at  us  and  decided  that  we  had  not  the 
appearance  of  absconders.  But  this  little  contretemps 


300 


convinced  me  that,  even  for  a  journey  in  western 
Europe,  it  is  as  well  to  have  a  passport  in  one's  pocket. 
And  I  have  wondered  since  how  many  thousands 
of  those  circulars  the  Pinkerton  people  sent  out. 
That  one  should  have  reached  a  place  so  out  of  the 
way  as  Kampen  gave  me  a  new  idea  of  the  thorough- 
ness of  Pinkerton  methods. 

The  city  walls  of  Kampen  have  long  since  suc- 
cumbed to  the  march  of  time,  and  their  site  is  now 
covered  with  houses;  but  three  of  the  old  city  gates 
still  stand,  as  they  did  in  the  memorable  days  of  the 
octroi,  and  handsome  gates  they  are.  One,  a  mag- 
nificent structure,  with  the  arms  of  the  province  em- 
blazoned on  either  side  of  the  arched  gateway,  opens 
from  the  market-place  onto  the  quay;  another,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  town,  leads  out,  past  a  broad 
sheet  of  water  which  was  the  old  moat,  into  green 
meadows;  the  third  guards  the  road  to  Zwolle. 

Across  the  river,  to  the  north  of  Kampen,  lies  a 
region  of  market  gardens,  and  every  morning,  across 
the  bridge,  come  the  little  carts,  dozens  of  them, 
pushed  by  wide-skirted,  white-capped  women,  and 
heaped  high  with  the  nicest-looking  vegetables  you 
ever  saw.  It  is  a  perpetual  delight  to  watch  the  bar- 
gaining for  their  contents,  as  they  are  pushed  from 
door  to  door,  for  Dutch  housewives  are  the  most 
careful  of  purchasers.  Then,  by  mid-afternoon,  the 
chaffering  is  done,  and  the  women  push  the  empty 
carts  homeward  again,  their  feet  dragging  with 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        301 

fatigue.  What  the  men  do  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
they  stay  at  home  and  look  after  the  garden. 

And  it  is  at  the  hour  when  the  carts  are  going 
homeward  across  the  bridge  that  the  milkmaids  start 
out  for  the  fields  south  of  the  town,  where  scores 
and  scores  of  black-and-white  cattle  graze.  These 
women,  most  of  them  quite  young,  wear  a  wooden 
yoke  across  their  shoulders,  and  from  each  end  of 
it  dangles  a  can,  capable  of  holding  about  six  gallons. 
Once  in  the  fields,  they  go  from  cow  to  cow,  each 
girl,  I  suppose,  being  responsible  for  a  certain  num- 
ber; and  then,  when  the  cans  are  full,  they  trudge 
back  to  town  carrying  them,  their  hands  on  their  hips, 
which  rise  and  fall  under  the  load.  Frequently  they 
have  to  walk  three  or  four  miles  to  get  to  the  cows; 
I  have  seen  them  striding  across  the  fields  until  they 
were  mere  specks  in  the  distance. 

One  wonders  why  a  wagon  is  not  sent  out  to  bring 
in  the  cans,  and  so  save  these  girls  this- terrific  labour, 
of  a  kind  peculiarly  trying  to  women;  but  even  when 
they  get  back  to  town,  their  work  is  not  done,  for 
they  trudge  from  door  to  door,  delivering  the  fresh 
milk  to  customers,  and  then  go  on  to  the  cheese- 
factory  with  what  remains  unsold.  I  suppose  they 
make  the  same  trip  in  the  morning,  but  I  was  never 
up  early  enough  to  see  them.  And  never  have  I  seen 
the  cans  carried  in  a  cart,  but  always  slung  from  the 
girls'  shoulders. 

The  Kampen  costume  is  picturesque  and  striking. 
Full  black  skirts  spread  out  from  the  hips,  and  fall 


302 The  Spell  of  Holland 

to  a  little  below  the  knee,  with  a  shorter  dark-brown 
overskirt.  The  upper  garment  is  made  very  close 
and  scant,  and  straight  up  and  down.  The  head- 
dress is  either  a  tight  little  black  cap  with  a  broad 
band  of  nickel  or  silver  across  the  back  of  the  head 
and  coming  down  against  either  cheek  almost  to  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  finishing  there  in  a  little  wire 
spiral;  or  it  is  a  cap  of  white  lace  with  a  tail  to  it, 
which  is  stiffly  starched  and  sticks  straight  up  behind. 
You  will  see  this  costume  in  the  photograph  opposite 
this  page,  and  in  the  background  is  one  of  the  old 
city  gates,  and  our  host,  M.  Breijinck,  stands  on  the 
sidewalk  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  broad 
smile  on  his  face. 

These  are  the  every-day  caps.  For  ceremonial 
occasions  there  is  another,  with  a  long  and  sweeping 
tail  which  falls  over  the  shoulders,  and  frequently,  to 
heighten  the  effect,  a  bonnet  full  of  artificial  flowers 
is  set  atop  it;  or  sometimes  just  a  big  wreath  of 
artificial  flowers. 

We  were  at  Kampen  so  long,  and  so  few  things 
happen  there,  that  we  became  familiar  figures  on  its 
streets,  and  most  of  the  people  got  to  know  us,  and 
made  it  a  point  to  nod  and  smile  to  us  whenever  we 
passed.  We  bought  one  of  the  turn-up  caps  one 
night  of  a  delightful  old  woman,  who  insisted  on 
showing  us  her  entire  stock  —  and  most  beautiful  it 
was.  Then  Betty  decided  that  she  must  have  a  pair 
of  wooden  shoes,  and  a  great  time  she  had  getting 
a  pair  to  fit.  They  were  of  willow,  wonderfully  light 


STREET    SCENE,    KAMPEN. 


MARKET-WOMEN    AT   KAMPEN. 


The  City  Fathers  of  Kampen        303 

and  made  by  hand.  They  cost  something  like  fourteen 
cents  of  our  money;  and  how  anyone  could  make  a 
living  out  of  them  at  the  price  I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand,  for  they  must  have  taken  the  best 
part  of  a  day  to  make.  Packed  in  the  "  chocolate- 
.  drop,"  they  added  two  more  excrescences  to  its  already 
eccentric  contour. 

One  day,  when  we  were  going  along  the  street, 
we  saw  a  group  of  peculiarly  distressed-looking  chil- 
dren staring  in  at  a  pastry-cook's  window,  their  fingers 
in  their  mouths,  and  discussing,  I  suppose,  what  would 
happen  if  they  were  told  to  help  themselves.  They 
looked  so  wistful  that  we  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  play  Santa  Claus;  so  we  stopped  and  told 
them  to  pick  out  the  cakes  they  liked  best.  They 
were  too  astonished,  at  first,  to  understand;  but 
finally  they  indicated  a  pile  of  cakes  covered  with  a 
particularly  deadly-looking  green  and  red  and  yellow 
icing.  I  went  in  and  bought  one  for  each  of  them; 
and  Betty  passed  them  around,  and  they  took  them 
with  staring  eyes  and  trembling  hands. 

"  Dank  u  well,  mevrouw,"  they  said ;  "  dank  u 
well,  mijnheer;"  and  then  they  began  to  lick  the 
icing  off  very  carefully,  in  order  to  make  it  last  as 
long  as  possible! 

All  of  which  may  seem  very  trivial;  but  it  is  just 
such  little  incidents  which  make  a  trip  delightful. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

MORE    ABOUT    KAMPEN 

THE  jewel  of  Kampen  is  the  raadhuis,  or  townhall, 
one  of  the  most  delightful  buildings  in  existence  any- 
where —  delightful  inside  as  well  as  out.  A  modern 
addition  has  been  built  to  it,  where  the  city  officials 
now  have  their  offices,  so  that  the  old  building  re- 
mains as  it  was  when  first  erected  nearly  four  hun- 
dred years  ago.  Indeed,  parts  of  the  building  are 
two  centuries  older  than  that;  for  the  present  struc- 
ture is  a  remodelling  of  the  fourteenth  century  one, 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1543  —  eighty-seven  years  before 
the  Pilgrim  Fathers  stepped  ashore  on  Plymouth 
Rock! 

The  fagade  is  very  interesting.  Between  the  upper 
windows  are  six  old  statues,  saved  from  the  first 
building  and  remarkably  well  preserved  —  a  queer 
hodge-podge  of  real  and  ideal  characters,  for  two  of 
them  represent  Alexander  the  Great  and  Charlemagne, 
while  the  others  typify  the  four  virtues  of  Brotherly 
Love,  Moderation,  Fidelity,  and  Justice.  Each  is 
life-size,  and  each  stands  under  a  graceful  Gothic 
stone  canopy.  In  the  centre  of  the  upper  story  is 
an  iron  cage  in  which  criminals  were  exposed  to  the 
gaze  of  the  populace  assembled  in  the  street  below. 

304 


More  About  Kampen  305 

There  is  a  heavy  cornice  of  carved  stone  across  the 
front,  and  the  end  gable  is  very  elaborate  indeed. 
On  the  other  side  is  a  graceful  bell-tower,  leaning 
away  from  the  building  and  very  much  out  of  plumb. 

The  hall  of  justice  or  council-chamber  on  the  upper 
floor  is  undoubtedly  the  finest  apartment  of  the  kind 
in  Holland.  Around  the  walls  are  richly-carved  oak 
stalls,  almost  black  with  age,  separated  by  pillars  and 
surmounted  by  splendidly-carved  entablatures.  Here, 
each  in  his  own  stall,  the  members  of  the  municipal 
council  sat  and  discussed  the  affairs  of  Kampen,  in 
those  dark  days  when  Margaret  of  Parma  was 
Regent  of  the  Netherlands,  and  in  the  still  darker 
ones  when  Alva  was  ravaging  the  country.  From 
that  bell-tower  at  the  back  rang  out  the  news  that 
the  Spaniards  had  been  forced  to  flee  from  Leiden, 
from  Enkhuisen;  that  the  battle  of  the  Zuyder  Zee 
was  won;  that  Brill  had  been  taken  by  the  Water- 
beggars;  and,  finally,  that  the  Dutch  Republic  had 
been  born !  Yes  —  and  here  it  was  that  Councilman 
X.  made  his  famous  proposal  to  double  the  number 
of  the  city  gates!  It  was  on  the  wall  without  that 
an  elaborate  gilt  sun-dial  was  placed;  and  then,  by 
resolution  duly  made  and  seconded,  covered  by  a 
canopy  to  protect  it  from  the  sun  and  rain ! 

The  room  is  divided  into  two  parts  by  a  high  oak 
screen,  handsomely  carved.  Outside  this,  the  populace 
assembled,  and  the  advocates,  when  there  was  a  case 
to  be  tried.  The  councilmen,  who  also,  on  occasion, 
acted  as  judges,  occupied  the  stalls  within,  and  the 


306  The  SpeU  of  Holland 

advocates  addressed  the  screen,  so  that  the  judges 
might  sit  and  deliberate  —  or  perhaps  go  to  sleep!  — 
free  from  prying  eyes.  Only  the  disembodied  argu- 
ment reached  them.  There  was  no  searching  of  eyes, 
no  pointing  of  accusing  fingers.  At  how  great  a  dis- 
advantage would  our  modern  advocates  have  laboured 
under  such  circumstances ! 

The  chief  ornament  of  the  inner  chamber  is  a  great 
chimneypiece  of  carved  sandstone  painted  gray,  reach- 
ing to  the  ceiling.  It  is  to  other  chimneypieces  what 
Dutch  monuments  are  to  other  monuments.  Nothing 
more  elaborate  could  be  imagined,  for  the  artist,  one 
Jacob  Kolyn  de  Nole,  utilized  every  inch.  Two 
sphinx-like  caryatides,  one  male  and  one  female, 
support  it.  On  one  side  of  the  frieze,  Solomon  pre- 
sides at  the  distribution  of  the  baby;  on  the  other, 
Caius  Mutius  is  calmly  burning  off  his  right  hand 
in  a  brazier  to  show  Lars  Porsenna  that  he  does  not 
fear  his  tortures.  On  the  cornice  above  the  frieze 
five  or  six  cherubs  sit ;  above  them,  two  lions  hold  the 
standards  of  the  Netherlands  over  the  figure  of 
Charity  suckling  the  stranger  baby,  while  Faith  and 
Hope  look  on  approvingly  from  either  side.  Still 
higher,  Fortitude  and  Prudence  gaze  up  at  Justice, 
seated  in  the  apex  with  her  scales  before  her.  The 
pediment  bears  the  date  1545.  The  carving  is  exqui- 
sitely done,  and  is  without  disfigurement  of  any  kind. 

To  the  right  of  the  chimneypiece  is  the  "  schepen- 
gestoelte,"  or  double  chair  for  the  chief  judges, 
wonderfully  carved  and  reached  by  a  flight  of  steps. 


More  About  Kampen  307 

A  cherub  on  the  corner  of  the  mantel  looks  down  at 
it,  with  hand  lifted  as  though  in  benediction.  Over 
the  entire  room  is  a  massive  oak-beamed  ceiling,  with 
some  of  the  old  gilding  still  discernible,  and  the  whole 
effect  is  one  of  unparallelled  richness  and  dignity. 

The  aldermen  of  Kampen  no  longer  use  this  room 
for  their  deliberations,  but  another,  almost  as  beauti- 
ful in  its  way,  in  the  newer  portion  of  the  building. 
They  sit  about  a  great  horse-shoe  table,  the  burgomees- 
ter  at  the  head,  and  nine  councilmen  on  either  side 
of  him,  with  the  clerk  at  a  little  table  inside  the  horse- 
shoe. And  on  the  table  before  each  chair  is  the  usual 
big  pewter  inkwell,  and  a  pewter  sifter  to  sift  sand 
over  the  writing  and  so  blot  it  —  a  method  which 
I  believed  too  picturesque  to  endure  anywhere  on  this 
prosaic  earth. 

I  created  quite  a  commotion  at  the  raadhuis  by 
asking  permission  to  climb  the  bell-tower  in  order  to 
inspect  the  mechanism  by  which  the  chimes  are  rung. 
There  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,  conferences  in  an 
inner  room  with  a  dignitary  whom  I  suppose  to  have 
been  the  burgomeester ;  and,  finally,  a  long  explana- 
tion was  made  me  why  the  request  could  not  be 
granted.  My  Dutch  was  much  too  limited  to  enable 
me  to  catch  the  import  of  the  explanation;  but  they 
were  all  so  sorry  and  embarrassed  about  it,  that  I 
ended  by  becoming  embarrassed  myself,  and  apolo- 
gized for  having  suggested  such  a  thing. 

We  left  the  raadhuis  most  regretfully,  —  I  hope 
to  see  it  again,  some  day!  —  and  proceeded  to  the 


308  The  SpeU  of  Holland 

Groote  Kerk,  or  St.  Nicholas  Kerk,  a  great  Gothic 
structure,  one  of  the  most  important  in  the  Nether- 
lands. We  tried  the  various  doors  and  found  them 
all  locked;  and  then  a  nice-looking  old  man  ran  out 
to  us  from  one  of  the  neighbouring  houses,  and  said 
that  the  koster  lived  some  distance  away,  and  he 
would  send  for  him.  He  escorted  us  across  the 
square  to  his  own  house  —  which  his  wife  was  scrub- 
bing. We  waded  through  the  water  flowing  through 
the  vestibule  and  over  the  pavement,  and  they  both 
made  us  sit  down  in  their  best  room;  and  then  the 
little  man  ran  out  and  stopped  a  passing  peddler  and 
sent  him  off  after  the  koster,  and  then  came  back 
and  sat  down  and  tried  to  talk  with  us. 

Such  friendly  people  they  were;  and  the  old  lady 
ran  and  got  an  atlas,  so  that  we  could  show  them 
where  we  had  come  from  and  where  we  were  going; 
and  when  they  found  we  were  from  America  they 
were  astonished  and  delighted.  It  was  all  very  pleas- 
ant and  exciting,  and  we  were  almost  sorry  when 
the  peddler  came  back  with  the  koster,  who  was  a 
woman,  and  had  evidently  donned  her  good  clothes 
in  haste,  in  honour  of  the  occasion. 

The  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  which  dates  from  the 
fourteenth  century,  is  a  most  imposing  edifice  —  a 
testimony  to  the  old-time  greatness  of  Kampen.  The 
nave  is  very  lofty,  there  are  double  aisles  —  a  rarety 
in  Dutch  churches,  as  is  also  the  ambulatory,  with 
its  radiating  chapels.  The  pillars  of  the  choir  instead 
of  being  round,  are  clustered,  while  those  of  the  nave 


LOADING   THE    HAY. 


HAYMAKERS   NEAR    KAMPEX. 


More  About  Kampen  309 

are  square.  The  clerestory  windows  are  unusually 
high,  with  fine  geometrical  tracery.  A  beautiful 
stone  screen  separates  the  choir  from  the  ambulatory; 
but,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  interior,  it  is  whitewashed 
to  within  two  or  three  feet  of  the  ground,  and  from 
there  down  painted  a  shiny  black  —  with  tar  paint,  I 
suppose,  to  keep  out  the  moisture.  In  an  urn  on  the 
wall  is  the  heart  of  doughty  Admiral  de  Winter,  who 
died  at  Paris  in  1812,  but  directed  that  his  heart  be 
sent  back  to  be  preserved  in  the  city  which  he  loved. 

The  pulpit  is  not  of  wood,  but  of  stone,  painted  gray, 
with  the  carving  touched  with  gilt.  The  west  end  is, 
as  usual,  blocked  by  an  elaborate  organ,  with  white 
figures  surmounting  it.  Altogether,  the  church  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  we  visited  in  Holland.  The 
koster  took  us  around  most  patiently,  and  was  dis- 
proportionately grateful  for  the  small  tip  we  gave  her. 

We  spent  that  afternoon  in  exploring  the  environs 
of  Kampen,  first  across  the  Ijssel  bridge,  along  a  road 
shadowed  by  a  double  avenue  of  noble  oaks,  and 
through  the  market-garden  land  beyond;  then  back 
across  the  town,  and  through  the  many-towered  gate 
on  the  other  side,  and  so  on  into  the  beautiful  graz- 
ing country.  Betty  went  back  to  the  hotel  to  write 
some  letters,  presently;  but  I  wanted  to  get  some 
pictures,  and  walked  on  and  on.  Avenues  of  trees, 
marking  roads,  crossed  the  country  in  every  direction, 
separated  from  the  fields  on  either  hand  by  little 
ditches  full  of  water;  and  the  fields  were,  of  course, 
divided  from  each  other  in  the  same  way;  and  these 


310  The  Spell  of  Holland 

ditches  were  bright  with  water-lilies,  and  yellow  flags, 
and  their  banks  were  gay  with  many  kinds  of  flowers. 

My  first  picture  was  of  a  group  of  haymakers,  two 
men  and  a  young  woman,  loading  hay  into  a  high- 
sterned  wagon.  Then  I  came  upon  an  old  and 
weatherbeaten  farm-labourer  seated  on  a  bench  at  the 
roadside,  and  took  his  picture,  much  to  his  amusement. 
He  had  a  basket  strung  at  his  back,  like  a  knapsack, 
with  his  worldly  goods  in  it,  I  suppose,  and  his  face 
was  one  of  the  most  humourous  and  characteristic 
I  have  ever  seen.  Life  had  beaten  and  twisted  and 
gnarled  him;  but  it  had  not  soured  him.  That  is 
what  I  call  a  victory. 

A  little  further  on,  three  haymakers,  two  old  men 
and  a  girl,  attracted  my  attention ;  so  I  climbed  around 
a  gate  and  walked  over  to  them;  and  when  they  saw 
my  camera,  they  laughed  and  fell  into  a  pose  so 
natural  and  unstudied  that  I  snapped  them  on  the 
instant.  I  had  a  pocketful  of  cigars,  as  usual,  and  I 
begged  each  of  the  men  to  accept  one,  which  they 
did  with  profuse  thanks.  I  also  offered  one  to  the  girl, 
but  she  shook  her  head  violently,  and  they  all  seemed 
to  think  it  an  immense  joke. 

A  little  farther  on,  the  road  branched,  and,  as  I 
neared  the  fork,  I  saw  a  wagon  loaded  with  hay 
coming  along  the  other  road  between  the  trees,  so 
I  hurried  forward  and  got  a  picture  of  it,  and  a 
very  good  picture  I  think  it,  with  the  feathery  trees 
in  the  foreground,  and  the  long  avenue  away  in  the 
distance.  You  will  find  the  picture  opposite  this  page, 


BRINGING   IN    THE   HAY   NEAR   KAMPEN. 


A     SINGLE     SLENDER     TREE    .    .    .    WORTHY    OF    HOBBEMA.' 


More  About  Kampen  311 

and  I  want  you  to  look  at  it,  for  it  not  only  gives 
an  idea  of  how  these  interminable  avenues  of  trees 
look,  but  it  also  shows  the  flatness  of  Holland.  Note 
how  those  distant  trees  stand  out  against  the  sky, 
and  how  you  can  see  the  sky  between  the  trunks. 

I  followed  the  branch  of  the  road  taken  by  the 
hay-wagon,  and  came  presently  upon  a  little  farm- 
stead nestling  beside  the  road,  with  a  clump  of  trees 
behind  it,  and  a  single  slender  tree  in  front,  worthy 
of  Hobbema.  I  want  you  to  look  at  that  tree  in  the 
picture  opposite  the  preceding  page.  Then,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  you  will  notice  one  of  the  hay- 
ricks of  which  I  have  spoken,  with  its  pointed  roof 
of  thatch,  and  the  four  poles  upon  which  it  is  hoisted 
as  the  hay  is  packed  in  beneath  it. 

Just  after  I  had  taken  this  picture,  a  milk-maid 
trudged  around  a  turn  of  the  road,  with  her  yoke 
on  her  shoulder  and  the  great  milk-cans  swinging 
from  it.  I  snapped  her,  too,  after  she  had  passed 
me;  and  began  to  be  a  little  intoxicated  at  my  good 
fortune  in  getting  so  many  characteristic  photographs. 

Some  distance  back  along  the  road,  I  had  noticed 
a  foot-bridge  leading  over  the  roadside  ditch,  evidently 
placed  there  for  the  convenience  of  the  milkmaids 
coming  from  the  town.  So  I  went  back,  and  camped 
out  beside  it,  and  waited  for  some  to  come  along. 
A  boy  appeared  presently,  with  yoke  and  cans;  but, 
as  soon  as  he  saw  me,  his  interest  in  milking  vanished, 
and  he  hung  around,  and  I  tried  to  talk  with  him,  but 
without  success.  He  wanted  me  to  take  his  picture, 


312  The  Spell  of  Holland 

but  I  told  him  I  wanted  a  girl,  not  a  boy,  and  that  my 
supply  of  films  was  limited.  Then  we  saw  a  milk- 
maid approaching  down  the  road,  and  I  snapped  her 
as  she  crossed  the  bridge.  When  I  developed  the 
film,  I  found  that  the  boy  had  followed  along  after 
her,  and  was  in  the  picture,  too. 

One  other  photograph  I  wanted,  and  that  was  of 
a  girl  tucked  away  under  a  cow  milking,  —  just  such 
a  picture  as  Anton  Mauve  loved  to  paint.  Most  of  the 
girls  had  trudged  away  out  of  sight  across  the  fields; 
but  I  presently  came  upon  one  in  the  desired  attitude ; 
and  when  she  saw  me,  she  laughed  and  ducked  her 
head.  But  that  picture  was  a  failure,  for  I  lost  my 
nerve  at  the  critical  moment,  and  failed  to  get  all  the 
cow  on  the  film.  However,  I  got  a  much  better  one 
afterwards,  near  Middleburg,  as  you  shall  hear. 

The  milkmaids  were  coming  out  in  force,  as  I 
turned  back  along  the  road  to  Kampen;  and  one 
up-to-date  one  was  riding  a  bicycle,  with  her  milk- 
cans  tied  on  in  front.  She  had  kilted  up  her  skirts 
to  keep  them  away  from  the  wheels,  and  the  effect 
of  her  big  wooden  shoes  on  the  pedals  was  very  comi- 
cal. It  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  a  man's  wheel, 
and  how  she  got  on  without  dropping  a  shoe  I  can- 
not imagine.  I  should  have  liked  to  see  her  mount, 
but  that  pleasure  was  denied  me. 

We  spent  that  evening  walking  about  the  town. 
The  streets  were  full  of  quaintly-garbed  people;  the 
shop-windows  shone  more  brightly  than  ever;  from 
the  darkened  cafes  came  the  hum  of  talk  and  the 


More  About  Kampen  313 

rattle  of  glasses;  and  always  in  the  air  overhead 
was  the  soft  carillon  from  the  towers,  borne  on  the 
fresh,  sweet  breeze  from  the  Zuyder  Zee.  Oh,  yes; 
I  hope  again,  some  day,  to  stroll  along  those  streets! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  HERMITS  OF  THE  ZUYDER  ZEE 

"  THERE  are  two  places  we  must  not  miss,"  I  said, 
as  we  sat  at  home  planning  the  trip.  "  One  is 
Kampen  —  " 

Betty  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  "  where  all  the  funny  stories 
come  from  —  " 

"  And  the  other  is  Urk,"  I  concluded. 

"  What  is  Urk?  "  Betty  questioned. 

"  Urk,"  I  said,  "  is  this  pin-point  of  land  out  here 
in  the  middle  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,"  and  I  indicated  the 
spot  on  the  map  of  the  Netherlands  spread  out  before 
us. 

Betty  looked  at  it  skeptically. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  much  of  a  place,"  she  said. 
"  What's  to  be  seen  there?  " 

"  That's  just  it,"  I  said  triumphantly.  "  Nobody 
knows." 

I  had,  indeed,  been  seeking  information  about  Urk 
for  some  time,  and  with  very  poor  success.  Cyclo- 
pedias do  not  mention  it;  gazetteers  state  only  the 
obvious  fact  that  it  is  an  island  in  the  Zuyder  Zee; 
even  Baedeker  gives  it  but  a  meagre  line,  and  I  am 
forced  to  conclude  that  Urk  is  one  of  the  few  places 

314 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      315 

where  M.  Karl  has  not  been.  Dutch  travel-books 
refer  to  it  with  disconcerting  vagueness,  and  one  is 
tempted  to  believe  either  that  their  authors  have  never 
seen  the  island,  or  have  gained  such  knowledge  as 
they  possess  in  the  few  minutes  which  the  little  steamer 
from  Enkhuisen  to  Kampen  spends  at  its  wharf. 
There  is  one  exception.  M.  Henri  Havard  tells  about 
Urk  at  some  length;  but  even  he  leaves  many  things 
to  be  desired  —  besides,  that  was  forty  years  ago ! 

"  We'll  be  breaking  new  ground,"  I  went  on. 
"  Nobody  ever  goes  to  Urk.  So  we'll  go ;  and  we'll 
stay  long  enough  to  see  the  place  thoroughly." 

To  all  of  which  Betty  cordially  assented,  lured  on, 
I  think,  more  by  the  sense  of  venturing  into  the 
unknown  than  by  the  expectation  of  really  seeing 
anything  of  interest. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  having  explored  Kampen, 
we  one  day  told  M.  Breijinck  of  our  wish  to  visit 
Urk.  He  looked  at  us  queerly. 

"  It  is  a  journey,"  he  said,  "  which  few  strangers 
make." 

"  That,"  I  pointed  out,  "  is  one  reason  we  wish 
to  make  it.  Indeed,  the  journey  to  Kampen  seems  to 
be  one  that  few  strangers  make." 

"  Yes,"  he  assented  sadly,  looking  about  the  empty 
dining-room,  "  that  is  true.  But  we  are  at  least  in 
the  world.  Urk  is  different.  Its  people  live  by  them- 
selves out  there  in  the  water  like  hermits;  they  see 
no  one;  they  wish  to  see  no  one;  the  women,  many  of 
them,  live  and  die  there  without  once  seeing  the  mairk 


316  The  Spell  of  Holland 

land.  Monsieur  and  Madame  might  not  be  regarded 
with  friendly  eyes." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  as  to  that,  we  must  take  our  chance. 
Now  tell  us  how  we  are  to  get  there." 

So,  seeing  that  these  pig-headed  Americans  were 
determined  to  have  their  own  way,  he  told  us.  A 
little  steamer  runs  daily  from  Kampen  to  Enkhuisen 
and  back  again,  touching  at  Urk  on  the  way.  It 
reaches  the  island  at  8-30,  and,  on  the  return  trip, 
stops  there  again  late  in  the  afternoon.  By  taking 
this  boat,  we  would  have  about  seven  hours  in  which 
to  see  Urk. 

"  You  think  that  will  be  sufficient?  "  I  asked. 

"  Monsieur  will  find  it  more  than  sufficient,"  he 
assured  me. 

And  he  was  right. 

A  knock  at  the  door  awakened  us  at  dawn,  and  we 
dressed  with  the  feeling  that  we  really  were  sacrifi- 
cing something  to  the  cause  of  learning.  Our  hot 
water  was  at  the  door,  and  when  we  descended  to 
the  dining-room,  we  found  an  excellent  breakfast 
awaiting  us,  with  our  host  in  person  to  serve  us  and 
to  wish  us  God-speed.  I  apologized  for  getting  him 
out  of  bed  so  early;  but  he  said  he  didn't  mind,  and 
I  could  tell  by  his  manner  that  he  considered  it  his 
duty  to  see  us  forth  upon  this  desperate  expedition. 
He  bade  us  good-bye  and  watched  us  down  the  street, 
and  I  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  perhaps  we 
were  doing  something  foolish. 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      317 

The  little  boat,  the  "  Minister  Havelaar,"  was 
puffing  at  her  quay  in  the  Ijssel,  and  our  advent  occa- 
sioned considerable  surprise.  There  were  three  pass- 
engers besides  ourselves,  a  young  man  and  woman, 
and  an  old  Dutch  vrouw,  white-capped  and  many- 
skirted,  who  descended  into  the  cabin,  slipped  off  her 
shoes,  and  went  immediately  to  sleep  on  one  of  the 
benches.  Promptly  at  6.45  the  boat  cast  off  and 
headed  down  the  river. 

The  Ijssel  is  dyked  on  either  side  with  solid 
masonry,  the  dykes  running  far  out  into  the  Zuyder 
Zee,  I  suppose  to  protect  the  river-mouth,  and  just 
at  the  end  of  one  of  them  is  a  little  lighthouse.  Long 
before  we  reached  the  Zuyder  Zee,  we  could  see  it 
curving  up  above  the  land,  dotted  with  red-sailed 
fishing-boats,  and  we  appreciated  as  never  before  the 
hollowness  of  "  Hollow-Land." 

The  captain  came  around,  presently,  bringing  us 
tickets  to  Enkhuisen.  He  was  visibly  astonished  when 
he  learned  that'  we  wanted  to  go,  not  to  Enkhuisen, 
but  to  Urk.  In  fact,  he  could  scarcely  believe  it,  and 
had  to  be  assured  and  re-assured  that  Urk  was  really 
our  destination.  He  produced  the  tickets,  finally,  and 
I  paid  him;  a  florin  and  a  half,  or  sixty  cents,  for 
the  round  trip. 

As  soon  as  we  were  fairly  straightened  away  down 
the  river,  the  crew,  consisting  of  an  engineer  and 
deck-boy,  came  aft  and  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  rope 
and  ate  their  breakfast  —  a  dark-looking  kind  of  cake 
washed  down  by  many  tinfuls  of  black  coffee.  And 


318 The  Spell  of  Holland 

just  as  they  finished,  we  rounded  the  end  of  the 
dyke,  passed  the  lighthouse,  and  headed  out  into  the 
Zuyder  Zee. 

The  day  was  bright  and  warm,  with  little  wind, 
so  that  the  water  had  only  a  slight  swell;  but  it  is 
sometimes  swept  by  violent  storms  which  render  it 
dangerous.  It  is  quite  shallow,  and  I  am  told  that 
a  strong  wind  scoops  the  water  up  into  short  and 
precipitous  waves,  difficult  for  a  small  boat  to  live  in. 
I  have  never  seen  any  other  water  of  just  that  colour, 
a  translucent,  pearly  gray.  Nearest  to  it  is  the  stream 
that  runs  down  from  the  glacier  at  Grindelwald. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  a  dark  spot  appeared  on  the 
horizon,  which  gradually  resolved  itself  into  a  huddle 
of.  red-roofed  houses,  grouped  behind  a  dyke;  and 
at  8.30,  we  ran  into  a  somewhat  complicated  harbour 
and  tied  up  at  the  pier.  There  was  a  crowd  of  people 
waiting,  for  the  arrival  of  the  boat  is  the  one  event 
of  the  day  at  Urk,  and  they  stared  at  us,  as  we  went 
ashore,  more  curiously  even  than  we  "stared  at  them. 

The  costume  of  Urk  has  no  especially  noteworthy 
feature.  The  women  wear  a  multitude  of  skirts, 
which  give  them  great  breadth  of  beam.  The  skirts 
end  some  inches  above  the  ankles,  and  truth  compels 
me  to  add  that  the  ankles  are  anything  but  shapely. 
The  upper  part  of  their  dress  consists  of  a  closely- 
fitting  waist,  which  represses  all  curves  and  which  is 
always  elaborately  embroidered.  During  the  week 
it  is  protected  by  an  over-covering  of  linen,  also 
embroidered. 


THE    COSTUME    OF    URK. 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      319 

Their  sleeves  end  just  above  the  elbow,  and  from 
there  down,  their  arms,  exposed  ceaselessly  to  all 
sorts  of  weather,  are  baked  by  the  sun  and  frozen 
by  the  cold  to  a  dull,  repulsive,  and  most  painful- 
looking  purple.  I  am  told  that  the  women  are  proud 
of  this  colour,  because,  I  suppose,  it  proclaims  them 
to  be  good  workers.  They  wear  a  close-fitting  little 
cap  of  lace,  under  which  the  hair  is  tucked,  except  for 
a  protuberant  bang  in  front.  On  week-days  the  cap, 
also,  is  protected  by  a  linen  cover,  and  the  front  of 
the  skirt  is  protected  by  an  ample  apron,  with  a  queer 
inset  of  embroidery  at  the  top,  something  after  the 
Marken  fashion. 

The  men  wear  baggy  trousers,  which  end  about 
midway  between  the  ankle  and  the  knee,  and  which 
are  often  so  patched  that  little  of  the  original  material 
remains.  The  jacket  is  dark  and  close-fitting,  with 
two  rows  of  buttons  down  the  front  and  sometimes 
large  embossed  buttons  at  the  waist  —  of  silver  or 
gold,  occasionally,  heirlooms  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation,  though  these  are  much  rarer 
here  in  poverty-stricken  Urk  than  elsewhere  in  Hol- 
land. The  jacket  is  buttoned  inside  the  trousers,  and 
has  wide  lapels  which  are  buttoned  back  against  the 
shoulders.  Heavy  knit  stockings  and  wooden  shoes 
are  worn  by  men,  women  and  children,  alike. 

As  we  walked  up  into  the  village,  we  heard  a  bell 
ringing  not  far  away,  ana  the  children  dragging  from 
every  direction  toward  the  sound  told  us  what  it  was. 
We  had  never  seen  a  Dutch  school,  so  we  followed 


320  The  Spell  of  Holland 

along,  and  soon  became  the  centre  of  an  animated 
group,  which  grew  to  a  crowd  as  we  reached  the 
school-house.  They  thronged  about  us,  staring  into 
our  faces  with  wide-open  blue  eyes,  touching  our 
clothes  with  inquiring  fingers,  and  the  girls,  in  par- 
ticular, seemed  greatly  interested  in  Betty's  hands, 
which  they  would  hold  and  stroke,  and  then  go  off  and 
drag  up  other  more  bashful  girls  to  do  the  same  thing. 
For  a  long  time,  we  did  not  understand.  Then  Betty 
took  off  one  of  her  gloves,  and  there  was  a  sensation.  A 
lady  with  a  removable  skin!  For  so  they  evidently 
regarded  her. 

The  excitement  grew  to  such  dimensions  that  finally 
one  of  the  teachers  came  over  to  see  what  the  trouble 
was,  and,  discovering  two  strangers,  hurried  away  and 
brought  the  head-master.  This  gentleman  introduced 

himself  as  Mr.  I .  He  could  speak  English 

quite  well,  for  he  had  lived  some  years  in  South 
Africa.  He  was  very  polite,  and  asked  us  if  we 
would  not  like  to  see  the  school.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  he  realized  that,  until  he  got  us  inside,  there 
was  little  chance  of  getting  the  children  in. 

He  took  us  from  one  room  to  another  —  there 
were  twelve  altogether  —  explaining  the  course  of 
study  and  introducing  us  to  the  teachers.  All  of  these 
were  men,  except  one;  and  they  sat  at  their  desks 
with  their  hats  on  and  smoking  cigars  while  the 
children  went  through  their  recitations!  The  one 
woman  teacher  had  charge  of  the  first  grade,  com- 
posed mostly  of  children  just  able  to  walk.  The 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      321 

hours  are  from  nine  to  twelve  and  from  two  to  four, 
and  school  lasts  pretty  much  all  the  year  round. 
There  is  a  vacation  of  four  weeks  in  the  summer, 
and  two  others,  at  Christmas  and  Easter,  of  a 
week  each.  Attendance  is  compulsory  to  the  age 
of  twelve. 

All  this  and  much  more  the  head-master  told  us, 
and  evidently  appreciated  our  interest  in  the  school. 
Indeed,  few  things  could  be  quainter  than  one  of 
those  rooms,  with  the  teacher  enveloped  in  a  cloud 
of  tobacco-smoke,  and  the  bright- faced,  queerly- 
costumed  children  sitting  two  and  two  on  little  bat- 
tered forms  with  their  wooden  shoes  ranged  in  a  row 
on  the  floor  beside  them.  The  recitation/  were  mostly 
in  chorus,  and  wall-maps  and  charts  seemed  to  be 
used  almost  entirely.  I  do  not  remember  that  the 
children  had  any  books  whatever,  but  in  this  I  may 
be  mistaken. 

One  of  the  teachers  remains  especially  in  my 
memory  —  a  slight,  youngish-looking  man,  with  a  sad 
face,  who  gazed  at  us  so  wistfully  that  I  stopped  for 
a  word  with  him,  and  found  he  understood  English. 
He  told  me  he  had  lived  eight  years  in  Chicago,  but 
had  been  forced  to  return  to  Holland,  and  now  was 
working  to  earn  enough  money  to  get  back  to  America ; 
but  it  was  a  long,  hard  task.  Urk,  after  eight  years 
of  Chicago  —  what  a  contrast ! 

"  There  is  one  very  great  favour  you  can  do  me," 

said  Mr.  I ,  as  we  paused  at  the  door  to  say 

good-bye.  "  If  you  would  call  upon  my  wife,  she 


322  The  Spell  of  Holland 

would  be  most  pleased.  She  is  English,  and  she  gets 
very  lonesome  here." 

"  Of  course  we  will  call,"  said  Betty,  instantly. 
"  We  shall  be  delighted  to." 

"  That  is  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  I ,  and  so  we 

left  him,  after  thanking  him  for  his  kindness. 

Just  beyond  the  school,  at  the  extreme  southern 
edge  of  the  island,  stands  the  tall,  white  lighthouse, 
and  we  decided  to  visit  it,  before  hunting  up  Mrs. 

I .  We  were  welcomed  at  the  door  by  Jan 

Loosman,  Jr.,  the  "  lichtwachter  "  —  "  light-watcher," 
what  a  good  word  that  is!  He  had  evidently  seen  us 
coming,  and  his  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  He 
conducted  us  to  the  top,  and  showed  us  the  great 
lantern  with  much  pride.  Then  he  took  us  out  on 
a  little  platform  to  the  "  mist-clock,"  or  fog-bell,  which 
is  also,  of  course,  automatic,  and  his  face  shone  almost 
as  brightly  as  his  lantern  as  he  tried  to  explain  its 
workings  to  us. 

His  wife  met  us  at  the  door  as  we  came  down,  and 
asked  us  into  the  house,  a  quaint  little  structure  of 
two  rooms,  huddled  against  the  tall  shaft  of  the  light- 
house. She  was  a  pleasant- faced  woman,  dressed  in 
the  characteristic  costume,  and  she  asked  us  to  sit 
down  in  the  painfully  clean  little  living-room,  and  she 
and  her  husband  looked  at  us  with  eyes  bright  with  in- 
terest. They,  however,  could  speak  no  English,  so  that 
about  all  we  could  do  was  to  smile  and  nod  at  each 
other  in  a  way  which  would  no  doubt  have  been  amus- 
ing to  an  onlooker. 


JAN   LOOSMAN,    LICHTWACHTER,    AND    HIS    FAMILY,    URIC. 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      323 

The  pride  of  that  household  was  the  baby,  dressed 
just  like  its  mother,  and  for  the  moment  confined  in 
a  wooden  tender  —  just  such  a  tender  as  you  see  in 
the  pictures  of  Frans  Hals  and  Jan  Steen.  I  asked 
—  by  signs  —  if  I  might  not  take  its  picture. 

"  Ja,  ja,"  agreed  Mrs.  Loosman,  instantly,  and, 
finally,  we  got  the  tender  set  up  in  the  light-house 
door  and  the  baby,  whom  all  this  excitement  had 
frightened,  quieted  down.  Another  little  girl,  also 
dressed  just  like  her  mother,  turned  up  from  some- 
where —  I  have  suspected  since  that  she  ran  away 
from  school  on  purpose !  —  and  I  took  the  whole  fam- 
ily. I  promised  to  send  them  one  of  the  pictures  — 
Jan  wrote  his  name  in  my  book  so  that  I  would  be 
sure  to  get  it  right  —  and  then  I  closed  the  baby's 
little  fist  about  a  dubbeltje,  and  with  many  bows  and 
smiles  and  good  wishes  all  around,  we  took  our  de- 
parture. I  hope  they  liked  the  picture. 

Our  visit  to  the  light-house  over,  we  proceeded 

to  hunt  up  Mrs.  I ,  and  found  the  house  without 

much  difficulty,  up  a  little  street  with  a  lot  of  wash- 
ings hung  out  to  dry  across  it ;  for  there  are  no  back- 
yards in  Urk  —  also  no  horses,  which  makes  this  use 
of  the  streets  possible.  A  cross-eyed  girl  answered 
our  knock,  took  one  look  at  us  and  fled  to  tell  her 
mistress  the  great  news.  Mrs.  I came  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  when  we  introduced  ourselves,  her  face 
brightened  and  she  asked  us  in.  It  was  evident  enough 
that  she  was  glad  to  see  us,  and  in  true  English  fashion, 
she  at  once  got  out  some  little  cakes  and  proceeded 


324 The  Spell  of  Holland 

to  make  tea.  I  had  been  having  some  trouble  with 
my  camera,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  had  a  dark  closet 
into  which  I  could  step  for  a  moment  to  see  what  was 
the  matter. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said.     "  I  think  the  bed  will  do." 

"  The  bed  ?  "  I  echoed,  in  some  surprise 

p<  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Here  it  is,"  and  she  opened  a 
little  door  in  the  wall. 

It  was  a  cupboard-bed,  such  as  we  had  seen  at 
Marken,  built  into  the  wall  about  three  feet  above  the 
floor,  and  almost  air-tight  when  the  door  was  closed. 

"  Do  people  really  sleep  in  places  like  that  ?  "  asked 
Betty,  peering  into  the  gloomy  recess 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  I assured  us.  "  All  the  island- 
ers do.  But  of  course  we  don't.  I  should  suffocate. 
Will  it  answer?" 

"  Admirably,"  I  said,  and  clambered  in,  and  pulled 
the  door  shut  after  me.  In  the  fifteen  years  I  have 
owned  a  camera,  I  have  been  in  some  queer  dark- 
rooms, but  this  was  the  queerest  of  all! 

It  was  difficult  to  understand  how  anyone  could 
survive  a  night  in  such  a  hole.  Not  a  ray  of  light 
entered,  not  a  breath  of  air.  Yet  such  beds  are  very 
common  in  the  Netherlands.  They  are,  indeed,  ex- 
cept in  the  larger  cities,  the  usual  kind.  In  the  smaller 
houses,  all  the  beds  open  out  of  a  common  room,  and 
one  cannot  but  wonder  how  the  undressing  is  man- 
aged! 

Our  new  friend's  eagerness  to  talk,  to  speak  Eng- 
lish again,  to  tell  us  about  herself,  and  hear  some- 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      325 

thing  of  the  outside  world  and  especially  of  America, 
was  almost  pitiful.  Her  life  had  not  been  all  beer 
and  skittles;  there  had  been  tragedy  and  suffering 
in  it;  she  had  married  her  present  husband  in  South 
Africa,  where  they  had  lost  everything  during  the 
war;  and  here  she  was,  cast  up  on  this  pin-point  of 
earth,  shut  off  for  months  in  winter  from  any  com- 
munication with  the  outside  world,  seeing  nobody  even 
at  other  times.  To  one  born  and  bred  in  Urk,  the 
life  there  doubtless  seems  natural  enough;  but  for  an 
Englishwoman  to  be  marooned  there!  However,  she 
told  us  the  future  was  looking  brighter,  and  that  she 
and  her  husband  hoped  soon  to  be  able  to  get  away 
into  the  world  again. 

As  we  sat  there  talking,  we  heard  a  bell  ringing 
violently  just  outside,  and  then  a  stentorian  voice 
shouted  something. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  That  is  the  aanroeper,"  said  Mrs.  I .  "  We 

haven't  any  newspaper  at  Urk,  so  an  old  blind  man 
is  employed  to  go  about  and  tell  the  news.  He's  a 
sort  of  walking  advertisement  —  yesterday  he  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  a  shipment  of  new  potatoes." 

"  And  what  is  he  announcing  to-day  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  voice  came  again,  and  Mrs.  I listened  and 

smiled. 

"  He's  announcing  your  arrival,"  she  said.  "  He 
says  that  two  strangers  are  at  Urk,  and  that  any 
children  who  annoy  them  will  be  shut  up  by  the  bur- 
gomeester  in  the  dark-room  at  the  raadhuis." 


326  The  Spell  of  Holland 

"  That's  very  thoughtful  of  the  burgomeester," 
I  said,  in  some  embarrassment  at  becoming  thus 
suddenly  a  public  character.  "  Does  he  always  do 
that?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  the  children  here  so  rarely  see  strangers 
that  they  are  apt  to  be  annoying,  and  sometimes  vis- 
itors resent  it,  and  then  there  is  trouble." 

Dutch  children  almost  everywhere  have  a  habit  of 
following  visitors  around  and  staring  at  them,  and 
running  ahead  to  tell  their  friends ;  so  that  one's  prog- 
ress, especially  through  the  smaller  villages,  is  a  kind 
of  triumphal  procession,  with  the  populace  looking  on 
from  either  side,  and  a  mob  of  children  clattering 
behind.  It  had  been  embarrassing,  at  first,  but  we 
had  long  since  got  used  to  it.  Certainly  we  never 
thought  of  resenting  it,  for  it  was  plainly  only  harm- 
less curiosity;  but  I  can  understand  how  it  would 
enrage  some  people. 

Again  the  voice  sounded,  and  I  looked  instinctively 
at  my  camera. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  get  a  picture  of  the  aan- 
roeper?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  and  Mrs.  I sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  He  has  his  regular  stopping-places.  One  is  right 
back  of  the  house." 

We  hurried  out,  stumbling  over  the  cross-eyed  maid, 
who  had  stationed  herself  in  the  hall  so  as  to  have 
a.  good  look  at  the  strange  visitors;  and  down  the 
little  street  came  the  blind  man,  a  bell  in  one  hand,  and 
a  boy  leading  him  by  the  other,  his  face  seamed  and 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      327 

roughened  by  exposure  to  the  weather,  his  clothing 
worn  and  patched.  I  snapped  him  as  he  passed,  and 
slipped  a  few  pennies  into  his  hand  —  more  money, 
I  dare  say,  than  he  had  seen  for  many  a  day. 

For  life  at  Urk  is  almost  incredibly  hard.  First, 
there  is  the  never-ending  battle  with  the  water;  for, 
though  the  whole  island  is  surrounded  by  a  dyke,  the 
sea  not  infrequently  breaks  through.  Then  there  is 
the  even  more  desperate  battle  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together.  Nothing  is  raised  on  the  island,  there  are 
no  gardens,  no  manufactories  —  no  income  from  any 
source  but  the  sea,  where  anchovies  and  plaice  and 
other  fish  are  caught.  Even  at  the  best  of  times, 
this  income  is  a  small  and  precarious  one,  and  when 
the  season  is  bad,  the  fishermen  are  for  months  on 
the  verge  of  starvation.  Nowhere  else  in  the  whole 
country  did  we  see  such  evidences  of  biting,  irreme- 
diable poverty.  When  the  fishing  is  good,  their  food 
is  fish  and  potatoes,  with  a  little  fat  meat  once  a 
week,  and  buttermilk  or  "  karnemelk  "  as  an  occasional 
delicacy.  What  they  eat  when  the  fishing  is  bad 
heaven  only  knows. 

The  fishing,  our  hostess  told  us,  is  growing  steadily 
worse,  so  that  the  future  of  the  Urk  islanders  is  not 
a  bright  one.  They  have  some  sort  of  grim  pride  in 
keeping  up  the  fight,  I  suppose,  else  they  would  have 
given  it  up  long  ago,  and  moved  to  the  mainland, 
where  life  is  easier.  Even  dog-fish  are  very  scarce. 
M.  Havard  tells  of  the  water  about  Urk  being  cov- 
ered by  their  black  and  shiny  heads,  and  describes  the 


328  The  Spell  of  HoUand 

desperate  battles  which  the  fishermen  sometimes  had 
with  them  in  order  to  protect  their  nets.  But  we  saw 
not  a  single  one;  and  when  one  is  captured  on  the 
beach  nowadays,  it  is  a  great  event. 

Let  me  add  here  that  the  aanroeper  is  by  no  means 
peculiar  to  Urk.  Nearly  every  Dutch  village  has  its 
aanroeper,  who  is  really  a  sort  of  public  crier,  to 
announce  the  arrival  of  new  goods,  the  ownership  of 
lost  articles,  and  so  on;  but  few  villages  are  so  de- 
pendent upon  him  as  is  Urk. 

We  bade  Mrs.  I good-bye  at  last,  but  before  we 

went,  she  brought  out  her  birthday-book  for  us  to 
write  our  names  in;  and  she  was  greatly  impressed 
when  she  learned  that  Betty  was  born  on  the  first  of 
December,  which  is  also  the  birthday  of  Queen  Alex- 
andra, of  England,  and  that  I  had  been  born  on  the 
ninth  of  November,  which  was  the  birthday  of  the 
late  King  Edward.  We  had  never  thought  of  the 

coincidence;  but  to  Mrs.  I it  seemed  most 

important,  almost  as  if  it  made  us  related  to  roy- 
alty. 

Once  away  from  Mrs.  I 's  house,  we  started  out 

to  explore  the  island.  The  place  has  not  changed 
greatly  since  M.  Havard's  day;  the  town  is  still  a 
huddle  of  little  houses,  "  scattered  pell-mell,"  without 
regularity  of  any  kind.  But  even  here,  in  this  tiny 
community,  there  are  two  well-defined  strata  of 
society  —  an  "  east  end  "  and  "  west  end,"  so  to  speak ; 
for  the  better  part  of  the  town  is  built  of  brick,  with 
clean  paved  streets,  while  just  back  of  it  are  the  poorer 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      329 

houses,  of  wood,  fronting  on  filthy  little  lanes,  with 
an  open  sewer  down  the  middle  and  no  suggestion 
of  the  traditional  Dutch  cleanliness.  Neither  are  the 
people  here  clean-looking  —  as,  indeed,  how  could 
they  be,  since  cleanliness  is  a  luxury  —  and  they  eyed 
us,  as  we  passed,  with  evident  hostility. 

School  was  out  by  this  time,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
burgomeester's  warning,  three  or  four  of  the  bolder 
boys  caught  on  to  us  to  show  us  around,  and  ask 
endless  questions  which  we  could  not  understand,  and 
pick  up  a  word  or  two  of  English.  The  other  chil- 
dren, more  timid,  contented  themselves  with  peeping 
at  us  from  half-open  doors,  or  around  the  corners  of 
houses,  shrinking  back  out  of  sight  as  we  approached. 
I  could  not  but  think  the  burgomeester's  precaution 
excessive,  for  the  boys  who  went  with  us  were  in 
refreshing  contrast  to  those  of  Marken.  They  neither 
asked  nor  expected  any  money  as  a  reward  for  their 
ciceronage;  but  they  did  ask  me  for  the  cigar  I  was 
smoking,  as  soon  as  I  was  through  with  it.  I  gave 
it  to  them  at  once,  and  they  passed  it  from  hand  to 
hand,  each  taking  a  few  hasty  puffs,  evidently  fearing 
that  I  might  want  it  back  again! 

At  one  end  of  the  village  is  the  old  brick  church, 
and  beside  it  a  little  graveyard  which,  in  one  respect, 
is  unique.  It  is  very, small,  for  there  is  little  land  to 
spare  on  this  island.  It  has  long  since  been  full, 
so  that  now,  whenever  there  is  a  burial,  one  of  the 
old  skeletons  is  dug  up  and  stored  away  in  a  little 
brick  charnel-house,  to  make  room  for  the  newcomer! 


330  The  Spell  of  Holland 

Practically  everybody  in  the  village  is  related  in  some 
degree  to  everybody  else,  so  that  the  whole  popula- 
tion turns  out  to  every  funeral. 

It  is  considered  a  disgrace  for  an  Urk  man  to  go 
outside  of  Urk  for  a  wife.  Indeed,  this  feeling  is  gen- 
eral all  over  the  Netherlands.  It  is  an  unwritten  law 
that  a  man  must  get  his  wife  from  his  own  neighbour- 
hood. In  the  larger  places  this  is,  perhaps,  all  right; 
but  in  a  village  like  Urk,  the  consequences  of  such  in- 
breeding are  disastrous.  During  our  stay  there,  we 
saw  not  less  than  half  a  dozen  "  innocents,"  wander- 
ing around  the  streets,  and  if  you  will  look  at  the 
wharf  picture  opposite  page  334,  you  will  see  two  — 
one  with  his  back  turned  in  the  middle  distance,  and 
another  leaning  against  the  farther  side  of  the  gang- 
plank. How  many  of  the  children  are  idiots  I  don't 
know,  but  a  good  many  of  them  look  as  though  they 
might  be.  Nor  is  that  all.  Hunchbacks  are  even 
more  numerous  than  idiots,  and  are  expected  to  do 
their  full  share  of  work.  We  came  across  one 
laboriously  warping  a  heavy  fishing-boat  in  through 
the  narrow  channel,  and  I  shall  never  forget  how  the 
rope  he  threw  over  his  shoulder  fitted  around  his 
hump,  as  he  leaned  forward  towing. 

When  we  remember  that  this  intermarrying  has 
been  going  on  in  this  little  island  for  four  hundred 
years  and  more,  the  consequences  are  not  surprising. 
For  Urk  existed  long  before  the  Zuyder  Zee  did  as 
an  island  in  Lake  Flevo.  Since  the  formation  of  the 
sea,  it  has  had  a  constant  struggle  for  existence  with 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      331 

the  stormy  waters  about  it.  The  inhabitants  of  other 
islands  have  given  up  the  fight  and  abandoned  them, 
and  the  islands  have  disappeared  beneath  the  waves. 
But  Urk  is  still  there. 

Only  one  thing  has  changed  since  M.  Havard's 
visit  —  and  perhaps  this  is  not  really  changed !  He 
speaks  with  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  the  women 
—  of  their  tall  and  graceful  forms,  of  their  fair  skins 
and  blue  eyes,  and  red  lips  and  rounded  figures.  Alas, 
I  must  believe  that  that  gallant  Frenchman  was 
too  chivalrous  to  tell  the  truth.  The  girls  are  some- 
times fresh-looking  and  attractive;  but  hard  work 
and  exposure  soon  wither  them  and  break  them 
down. 

Back  of  the  huddled  houses,  which  occupy  the  high- 
est part  of  the  island,  is  a  little  meadow  upon  which 
a  few  cows  graze;  and  near  the  houses  goats  are 
tethered,  eating  such  tufts  of  grass  as  they  can  find, 
and  kept,  I  suppose,  for  their  milk.  The  town,  too, 
has  its  "  great  man  "  —  the  factor,  or  jobber,  who 
buys  the  products  of  the  sea  from  the  fishermen  and 
then  markets  them  on  the  mainland.  In  exchange, 
he  supplies  the  fishers  with  the  tools  of  their  trade, 
enough  clothing  to  cover  them,  and  enough  food  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together;  and  in  hard  years  he 
is  compelled  to  make  advances  for  the  coming  season. 
His  is  the  warehouse  at  the  wharf;  and  his,  pretty 
much,  I  fancy,  is  everything  else  on  the  island  worth 
owning.  We  met  him  on  the  street  —  an  old,  gnarled, 
weather-beaten  Dutchman,  shrewd- faced  and  bright- 


332  The  Spell  of  Holland 

eyed  —  and  we  were  afterwards  told  with  bated 
breath  of  his  enormous  wealth  —  enormous,  of 
course,  only  by  comparison  with  the  poverty  around 
him. 

But  it  was  well  past  noon,  and  we  were  hungry; 
so  we  sought  the  only  restaurant  in  the  place,  and 
ordered  lunch.  It  was  of  the  simplest  kind,  but  not 
badly-cooked;  and  after  we  had  finished,  the  host 
came  to  talk  with  us.  When  I  say  "  talk,"  I  mean 
that  by  means  of  his  little  English  and  my  little  Dutch, 
we  managed  to  exchange  a  few  ideas.  He  had  a 
large  chromo  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty  on  the  wall, 
the  advertisement  of  some  steamship  company,  and  he 
knew  all  about  it,  even  to  how  many  people  can 
get  into  the  torch.  He  was  much  interested  to  learn 
that  we,  long  ago,  in  our  more  youthful  and  foolish 
days,  had  clambered  to  the  top  of  that  statue.  He 
evidently  considered  the  feat  a  heroic  one.  He  told 
us  that  he  also  furnished  lodgings  for  such  strangers 
as  stayed  over  night  in  Urk,  and  he  evidently  hoped 
for  our  custom.  But  if  there  had  ever  been  any  ques- 
tion of  our  leaving  on  the  afternoon  boat,  there  wasn't 
after  we  saw  the  beds.  They  were  cupboard-beds, 
so  small  that  to  sleep  in  them  at  all,  one  would  have 
to  lie  rolled  up  in  a  ball.  How  those  big  Dutchmen 
sleep  in  them  I  can't  imagine. 

We  sat  down  for  a  while  under  a  little  tree  in  front 
of  the  inn,  and  watched  the  people  going  back  and 
forth,  and  witnessed  a  violent  quarrel  between  a 
woman  and  one  of  the  village  "  innocents."  The 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      333 

children  were  going  back  to  school  for  the  second 
session,  and  they  all  stopped  for  a  final  look  at  us. 
It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  girls,  even  the  very 
small  ones,  improving  each  fleeting  moment  by  knit- 
ting stockings  as  they  walked  along.  They  were  very 
expert,  and  knitted  rapidly  away  without  once  look- 
ing at  their  work,  the  ball  of  yarn  in  the  pocket  of 
their  apron  and  the  completed  portion  of  the  stock- 
ing hanging  down  over  one  arm.  Wooden  shoes,  I 
fancy,  are  hard  on  stockings;  and  the  wear  on  them 
is  greatly  increased  by  the  fact  that  indoors  everyone 
goes  stocking- footed  —  Jan  Loosman  had  even  slipped 
off  his  shoes  before  he  entered  his  lighthouse.  So 
every  Dutch  girl  spends  her  spare  time  replenishing 
the  supply. 

As  the  children  came  along,  the  island's  single 
policeman  hovered  in  the  offing,  to  see,  I  suppose, 
that  we  were  not  annoyed.  That  must  have  been  a 
busy  day  for  him.  Ordinarily,  there  is  nothing  for 
him  to  do  but  go  down  to  the  landing  to  see  the 
boat  come  in.  The  Urk  people  rather  laugh  at  him; 
certainly  he  would  be  ineffective  enough  against  one 
of  the  brawny  .fishermen  or  even  his  scarcely-less- 
brawny  wife. 

We  went  on  again,  after  a  while,  for  a  last  look 
round  the  island.  Near  the  dock,  we  came  upon  a 
little  girl  helping  unload  peat  from  a  barge,  —  work 
far  too  heavy  for  such  a  child.  I  asked  her  why 
she  was  not  at  school,  and  she  answered  proudly  that 
she  was  thirteen  and  didn't  have  to  go  to  school  any 


334  The  Spell  of  Holland 

more.  When  we  asked  her  her  name,  she  pointed 
to  her  bodice,  upon  which  her  initials  were  embroid- 
ered, pronouncing  the  words  they  stood  for.  Already 
her  arms  were  burned  deep  red  with  exposure,  and 
in  a  few  years,  such  youth  as  she  had  would  be  worn 
out  of  her.  Yet  that  was  her  idea  of  life  —  the  idea 
of  all  these  people! 

The  practice  of  embroidering  the  initials  on  the 
over-bodice  is  quite  a  common  one.  You  will  notice 
that  the  bodice  of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  picture  oppo- 
site page  318,  is  so  ornamented. 

The  children,  even  the  very  small  ones,  play  about 
the  wharves  and  boats  in  a  way  to  give  an  American 
mother  heart-disease.  This  is  true  of  the  whole 
country;  but  I  have  never  seen  a  child  in  the  water, 
except  naked  in  swimming;  nor  have  I  ever  heard 
of  any  getting  drowned.  Perhaps  they  are  born  web- 
footed  !  From  the  way  every  doorstep  overflows  with 
children  I  should  say  that  the  stork  must  be  kept  ex- 
ceedingly busy  all  the  year  round. 

A  crowd  was  drifting  down  again  to  the  pier,  and 
a  bell  rang  somewhere  to  indicate  that  the  boat  from 
Enkhuisen  was  in  sight.  It  steamed  in  around  the 
dyke  presently.  It  was  loaded  heavily  with  freight 
from  Enkhuisen,  and  had  aboard  a  number  of  field- 
hands  going  over  to  Kampen  to  help  harvest  the  hay. 
The  freight  was  mostly  potatoes,  and  many  sacks  had 
to  be  put  off  at  Urk. 

While  we  waited,  a  crowd  of  girls  hung  around 
in  front  of  us,  evidently  anxious  for  me  to  take  their 


ON    THE    WHARF    AT    URK. 


THE    OLD    FISHERMAN. 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      335 

picture,  which  I  finally  did  as  they  were  playing  around 
a  decrepit  wheelbarrow.  On  the  harbour  side  was 
a  most  picturesque  old  fisherman  seated  in  the  stern- 
sheets  of  his  boat,  baiting  a  multitude  of  hooks  with 
little  red  worms,  and  then  carefully  inserting  them 
in  a  tray  of  moist  sand  in  front  of  him  to  keep  them 
fresh.  I  got  his  picture,  too,  and  he  heard  the  shutter 
snap  and  laughed;  you  will  find  it  opposite  page  334. 
The  great  fin-shaped  boards  drawn  up  at  the  side  of 
the  boat  are  lee-boards,  which  are  lowered  into  the 
water  when  the  boat  is  tacking  and  take  the  place  of 
a  keel.  The  boats  are  all  keelless,  and  are  built  flat 
and  wide  so  as  to  draw  only  a  few  inches  of  water. 
The  Zuyder  Zee  is  so  shallow  that  a  keel  boat  can 
sail  only  in  certain  channels.  Lee-boards  are  used  on 
all  Dutch  sail-boats ;  without  them,  indeed,  they  would 
be  unable  to  navigate  the  narrow  canals  except  straight 
before  the  wind. 

The  bell  rang  at  last,  the  gang-plank  was  pulled 
in,  and  we  backed  away.  As  we  did  so,  a  group  of 
ugly  old  women  who  had  watched  our  proceedings 
with  evident  disfavour,  bade  us  adieu  by  shaking  their 
fists  at  us;  so  perhaps  the  burgomeester  knew  what 
he  was  about,  after  all! 

The  sea  was  beautifully  calm,  and  as  we  steamed 

away  across  it,  I  thought  of  a  story  which  Mrs.  I 

had  told  us.  The  minister  at  Urk  had  resigned,  not 
long  before,  and  one  Sunday  morning,  a  young  min- 
ister was  sent  over  from  Enkhuisen  to  preach  a  trial 
sermon.  The  Zuyder  Zee  was  in  a  stormy  mood  that 


336  The  Spell  of  Holland 

day  —  so  stormy  that  the  unfortunate  candidate  soon 
became  violently  ill,  and  when  he  landed  at  Urk  was 
almost  in  a  state  of  collapse. 

However,  he  was  hurried  straight  into  the  pulpit, 
while  the  congregation  sat  around  and  grinned.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  sermon  was  a  total  failure;  but  if 
it  had  been  worthy  of  Erasmus  it  would  have  made 
no  difference.  A  man  who  got  seasick  —  bah !  Such 
is  Urk.  And  I  cannot  but  think  that  that  young  man 
had  a  most  fortunate  escape.  To  live  in  Urk  is  to 
be  buried  alive. 

The  sun  was  slipping  behind  the  horizon  as  we 
steamed  again  up  the  wide  and  rapid  river,  and  twi- 
light was  at  hand  as  we  tied  up  at  the  quay.  We 
bade  the  captain  good-bye,  and  strolled  leisurely  back 
to  the  hotel,  through  the  narrow  streets,  with  their 
bright-windowed  little  shops,  and  bright- faced  pro- 
prietors at  the  doors.  As  we  neared  the  hotel,  we  saw 
M.  Breijinck  on  the  steps  awaiting  us.  He  welcomed 
us  warmly. 

"  So  you  have  returned !  "  he  said.  "  I  am  very 
glad!" 

"  And  we  are  very  hungry,"  said  Betty. 

"  I  have  for  you  a  little  dinner  which  I  think  you 
will  like,"  and  M.  Breijinck  showed  his  white  teeth. 
"  Shall  we  say  twenty  minutes?  " 

We  were  down  within  that  time,  and  I  have 
seldom  tasted  a  better  meal.  Our  host  had  evidently 
killed  the  fatted  calf;  and  he  did  us  the  honour  of 
serving  it  himself. 


The  Hermits  of  the  Zuyder  Zee      337 

"  You  have  enjoyed  the  day?  "  he  asked,  as  he  held 
the  match  for  my  cigar,  at  the  close. 

"  Immensely,"  I  said.  "  But  it  is  not  a  trip  to  be 
made  the  second  time." 

"  Assuredly  no,"  he  agreed.  "  Yet  one  can  always 
learn  something,  even  in  a  place  like  Urk." 

"  I  did,"  said  Betty.  "  I  learned  the  derivation  of 
*  irksome.'  ' 

M.  Breijinck  smiled  politely;  but  his  English  did 
not  go  that  far. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AMONG    DUTCH    INNS 

AND  here,  before  we  turn  our  backs  upon  that 
delightful  old  inn  at  Kampen,  is  the  place  for  me 
to  say  something  about  Dutch  inns  in  general. 

We  were  comparing  notes  one  day  with  a  fellow- 
traveller  we  happened  to  meet  by  the  way,  and  we 
asked  him  laughingly  what  he  thought  of  the  Dutch 
breakfast. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  it's  much  like  other  breakfasts, 
isn't  it  —  ham  and  eggs,  or  whatever  you  order  ?  " 

We  asked  him  where  he  was  staying,  and  he  named 
one  of  the  caravanserais  "  frequented  by  English  and 
American  tourists." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "  that  isn't  a  Dutch 
breakfast  —  that's  an  American  breakfast.  You 
could  have  got  that  at  home.  There  was  no  use 
coming  to  Holland  for  ham  and  eggs." 

"That's  true,"  he  agreed.  "Tell  me  about  the 
Dutch  breakfast." 

And  I  did. 

It  is  a  thing  unique,  is  the  Dutch  breakfast,  not  to 
be  encountered  outside  of  Holland;  and,  even  in 

338 


Among  Dutch  Inns  339 

Holland,  to  be  found  only  in  those  old,  clean,  bright, 
homelike  little  inns  which  tourist  traffic  has  not 
spoiled.  There  is  one  to  be  found  in  every  town,  if 
you  will  only  look  for  it. 

It  was  at  the  Hotel  Central  at  Delft  that  we  were 
introduced  to  the  Dutch  breakfast,  and,  after  that, 
at  Haarlem,  Amsterdam,  Enkhuisen,  Zwolle,  Kampen, 
Middleburg,  and  many  other  places,  we  noted  with 
delight  its  variations  and  developments.  The  Dutch 
word  for  breakfast,  as  I  have  already  said,  is  "  ont- 
bijt,"  and  it  is  served  on  a  long  table  in  a  room 
especially  set  apart  for  the  purpose.  The  way  the 
table  is  set  is  a  revelation  of  the  Dutch  love  of  order, 
for  the  breakfast  dishes  are  repeated  over  and  over 
again  along  its  length  in  a  careful  geometrical  pattern. 
Now,  all  ye  who  have  heard  so  much  about  the  "  con- 
tinental "  breakfast  of  coffee  and  rolls  —  true  enough 
for  other  parts  of  Europe  —  listen  to  this  inventory 
of  a  Dutch  breakfast : 

First  there  is  the  bread,  of  which  the  Dutch  make 
a  specialty;  and  we  got  so  that  we  felt  slighted  if 
there  were  less  than  seven  kinds  on  the  table.  There 
are  "  broodjes  "  or  buns,  plain  buns  and  buns  with 
currants  in  them,  plain  white  bread,  gingerbread, 
toasted  biscuits  or  rusks,  which  we  grew  to  love, 
sweet  cakes  or  "  honeybread,"  brown  bread,  and, 
finally,  black  bread  very  wet  and  heavy,  almost  like 
fruit-cake.  I  have  seen  Dutchmen  cut  themselves  a 
thin  slice  of  this  black  bread  and  put  the  slice  in  a 
bun  and  eat  it  like  a  sandwich.  We  never  tried  to 


340  The  Spell  of  Holland 

eat  it  but  once ;  I  imagine  the  taste  for  it  is  an  acquired 
one. 

There  is  always  plenty  of  good  butter,  and  this  is  the 
only  meal  at  which  you  will  see  butter  on  the  table, 
unless  you  ask  for  it. 

After  the  bread  comes  the  meat,  of  which  there 
are  always  three  or  four  kinds,  cold  boiled  ham,  cold 
sliced  veal  or  veal-loaf,  dried  beef,  and  bologna.  Then 
comes  the  cheese,  of  which  there  are  three  kinds,  and 
sometimes  more  —  Edam,  a  kind  of  dark  hard  cheese, 
and  another  kind  with  caraway  seeds  in  it.  The 
Edam  was  the  only  one  we  liked,  but  that  was  very 
good  indeed,  and  I  was  ashamed  sometimes  of  the 
amount  of  it  I  ate. 

Then,  at  intervals  along  the  table,  dishes  heaped 
with  boiled  eggs  would  be  placed,  of  which  you  were 
privileged  to  eat  as  many  as  you  wanted.  If  you 
got  there  early,  the  eggs  were  hot;  if  you  got  there 
late,  they  were  cold.  They  were  placed  on  the  table 
at  the  beginning  of  the  meal,  and  that  ended  it. 

Then  there  was  always  jam  of  some  kind,  sometimes 
two  kinds,  sometimes  honey;  and  also  fruit  in  sea- 
son. It  was  the  strawberry  season  when  we  were 
there,  and  I  never  knew  before  how  good  strawberries 
are  for  breakfast.  And,  finally,  there  was  the  coffee, 
usually  served  in  an  individual  pot,  and  not  a  small 
one  by  any  means. 

Which  is  as  well,  for  nowhere  else  in  Europe  will 
you  taste  such  coffee  as  in  Holland.  It  comes  straight 
from  those  Dutch  colonies,  Java  and  Sumatra,  and  is 


Among  Dutch  Inns  341 

made  by  people  who  know  how.  Whenever  I  tasted 
coffee  elsewhere  in  Europe,  I  got  an  impression  that 
Europeans  didn't  understand  coffee.  English  coffee 
is  abominable;  German  coffee  is  little  better;  even 
the  much-vaunted  French  coffee  is  not  always  a  suc- 
cess; but  Dutch  coffee  is  always  exquisite.  For  the 
Dutch  appreciate  coffee.  When  they  enter  a  cafe  in 
the  evening  it  is  coffee  they  call  for  as  frequently 
as  wine  or  liqueur ;  and  it  is  served  in  a  little  cup  with 
a  little  glass  of  water  to  wash  it  down.  Coffee  and 
cigars  go  naturally  together,  and  the  fact  that,  in 
Holland,  these  things  are  both  so  good  and  so  cheap 
may  explain  Dutch  appreciation  of  them. 

The  etiquette  of  the  breakfast-room  is  most  rigid. 
On  entering,  one  must  bow  to  the  guests  already 
assembled,  who  gravely  return  the  salute.  If  there 
is  a  lady  at  the  table,  she  must  receive  a  separate 
salutation.  If  it  is  a  lady  entering,  the  men  at  the 
table  will  sometimes  rise  and  bow.  Conversation  is 
general  and  unconstrained.  Social  barriers  are  swept 
away.  Everyone  makes  it  his  business  to  see  that 
everyone  else  has  a  chance  to  sample  all  of  the  fifty- 
seven  varieties  of  food  on  the  table.  Particularly  if 
you  are  a  stranger,  are  you  the  object  of  solicitude.  Is 
your  cup  empty?  The  servant  is  hastily  signalled  to 
fill  it.  Does  your  eye  rest  on  the  cold  ham?  It 
is  instantly  handed  you. 

Upon  leaving  the  table,  the  etiquette  is  the  same. 
Every  eye  follows  you  to  the  door,  and  there  you 
must  turn  and  bow.  The  bow  is  gravely  returned, 


342  The  Spell  of  Holland 

and  you  pass  out  feeling  that  all's  right  with  the 
world.  At  first,  these  elaborate  salutations  embar- 
rassed us  a  little;  it  required  some  self-control  to 
stop  and  bow  as  we  passed  out;  but  we  soon  got 
used  to  them,  and  found  them  a  perpetual  delight. 

Lunch  is  served  in  the  cafe,  and  is  usually  a  la  carte, 
though  frequently,  as  in  France,  there  is  what  is 
called  a  "  plat  du  jour "  or  "  dish  of  the  day,"  in 
other  words,  the  day's  specialty,  which  is  ready  to 
serve  and  the  price  of  which  is  considerably  less  than 
if  it  had  to  be  especially  prepared.  The  Dutch  towns 
are  also  full  of  little  milk-shops,  where  a  light  lunch 
may  be  had  very  cheaply,  and  all  such  places  are 
quite  clean  and  may  be  entered  without  hesitation. 

But  the  great  event  in  every  inn  and  restaurant 
in  Holland,  an  event  which  is  regarded  with  a  venera- 
tion almost  religious,  is  the  serving  of  dinner.  The 
Dutch  are  fond  of  eating,  —  as  the  thousands  of  pic- 
tures showing  them  at  table  prove  —  and  the  meal 
for  which  they  save  themselves  is  the  evening  one. 
The  others  are  mere  interludes,  mere  makeshifts  to 
keep  hunger  from  growing  too  insistent.  The  dinner 
is  the  culmination  toward  which  the  whole  day 
mounts;  it  is  the  occasion  of  thought  and  solici- 
tude; to  make  it  go  off  well  is  to  achieve  a  triumph. 
And  yet,  strangely  enough,  it  varies  so  little  from  day 
to  day  and  from  town  to  town  that,  given  the  price, 
one  knows  almost  exactly  what  the  bill  of  fare  will 
be.  The  result  is  that,  after  a  time,  one's  stomach 
revolts,  and  one  is  driven  to  desperate  expedients  to 


Among  Dutch  Inns  343 

get  something  "  different,"  yet  the  Dutch  go  on  eating 
these  dinners  day  after  day,  seemingly  with  no  dimi- 
nution of  appetite;  so  I  suppose  they  have  been  de- 
vised to  suit  the  demand. 

To  judge  from  these  dinners,  I  should  say  that  the 
Dutch  expect  quantity  rather  than  quality.  Not  that 
the  quality  is  bad  —  it  is  merely  commonplace ;  and 
the  quantity  is  enormous. 

The  price  varies  from  a  florin  and  a  quarter,  or 
fifty  cents,  to  three  florins,  or  a  dollar  twenty  cents, 
depending  upon  the  town  and  the  inn.  Two  florins 
is  about  the  average  price,  though  almost  every  res- 
taurant serves  different  priced  dinners,  which  are 
identical  except  that  the  higher  priced  one  includes 
two  courses  more  than  the  other.  And  as  the  aver- 
age American  will  find  himself  satiated  long  before 
the  dessert  arrives,  the  cheaper  dinner  is  always  more 
than  sufficient. 

The  two  florin  dinner  will  start  with  hors  d'oeuvres, 
usually  served  in  a  dish  with  several  compartments, 
in  which  sliced  cucumbers  and  sardines  and  olives 
and  perhaps  radishes  are  grouped.  Next  comes  the 
soup,  usually  very  good,  though  we  never  liked  the 
forced-meat-balls  floating  around  in  it.  Then  the  fish, 
usually  turbot  with  white  gravy  and  potatoes  "  au 
naturel,"  or  peeled  and  boiled  in  plain  water.  We  got 
so  tired  of  this  fish  and  this  gravy  and  these  potatoes, 
that  the  mere  sight  of  them  grew  insupportable. 

After  the  fish  will  come  roast  beef  and  peas;  then 
roast  or  boiled  veal  and  potatoes  "  au  naturel,"  as 


344  The  Spell  of  Holland 

above.  These  tasteless  potatoes  were  sure  to  appear 
at  least  twice  during  every  meal.  Then  would  come 
roast  chicken  or  duckling,  with  a  compote  of  apricots 
or  prunes ;  then  a  lettuce  salad,  and  finally  dessert,  con- 
sisting of  fruit  and  cakes  and  cheese,  and  sometimes  a 
pudding.  The  price  of  the  meal  includes  no  drink- 
ables of  any  kind,  and  wine,  or  charged  water,  or  coffee 
are  all  extra. 

If  the  price  of  this  dinner  is  two  florins,  another 
dinner  will  be  served  for  a  florin  and  a  half  precisely 
like  it,  except  that  the  hors  d'oeuvres  and  one  of  the 
meat  courses  will  be  omitted.  Even  at  that,  it  will 
be  more  than  most  people  will  care  to  eat. 

I  have  heard  that  meat  is  dear  in  Europe,  but  it 
is  certainly  supplied  most  lavishly  at  these  dinners. 
Why,  after  eating  roast  beef,  anyone  should  wish 
to  eat  roast  veal,  and  after  that  roast  chicken,  is  a 
mystery  to  me.  Our  idea  of  a  dinner  was  a  soup, 
a  meat,  a  vegetable  or  two,  a  salad,  a  sweet,  and  coffee. 
We  laboured  unceasingly  toward  this  ideal,  but  I  must 
confess,  not  very  successfully.  And  a  simple  meal 
like  that  costs  a  good  deal  more,  served  to  order,  than 
the  most  elaborate  table  d'hote  meal,  besides  taking 
about  an  hour  to  prepare.  So  we  fell  into  the  habit 
of  ordering  the  table  d'hote,  and  passing  the  courses 
which  didn't  appeal  to  us.  In  each  new  town,  in  each 
new  inn,  we  thought  hopefully,  "  Now,  perhaps,  there 
will  be  something  different !  "  But  there  never  was. 

And  yet  certain  meals  stand  out  in  one's  memory 
—  the  first  dinner  at  the  Weimar,  and  the  first  at  the 


Among  Dutch  Inns  345 

Cafe  Brinkmann,  our  introduction  to  Dutch  pancakes 
at  the  Hotel  Central,  a  delicious  lunch  at  Arnhem 
—  the  list  grows  longer  as  I  look  back  at  those  days. 
What  we  missed  most,  I  think,  were  certain  intimacies 
of  home  cooking,  certain  ways  of  doing  certain  things 
to  which  we  had  grown  accustomed. 

For  instance,  we  like  our  eggs  fried  on  both  sides, 
and  our  progress  through  Europe  was  marked  by  a 
series  of  struggles  to  get  our  eggs  turned  over.  Fof, 
apparently,  the  only  way  European  chefs  ever  heard 
of  frying  an  egg  is  to  fry  one  side  very  brown  and 
leave  the  other  a  shaking  mass  of  albumen.  Now 
the  instructions  necessary  to  persuade  the  chef  to 
turn  the  egg  in  the  skillet  for  just  a  moment,  before 
taking  it  out,  are  so  idiomatic  that  I  never  gained 
command  of  them  in  any  language  but  my  own;  and 
the  difficulty  was  increased  by  the  evident  horror 
and  astonishment  with  which  the  instructions  were 
received.  The  waiter  always  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  what  we  wanted  was  an  omelet,  and  when 
we  had  convinced  him  that  we  did  not  want  an  omelet, 
but  wanted  our  eggs  fried  on  both  sides,  he  would 
go  slowly  toward  the  kitchen,  turning  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind  and  glancing  back  at  us  to  make 
sure  that  we  were  not  insane.  Sometimes  the  chef, 
incredulous  of  the  message  the  waiter  gave  him,  would 
come  himself  to  verify  it,  and  then  return  to  the 
kitchen  with  tragic  countenance,  plainly  debating 
within  himself  as  to  whether  his  artistic  conscience 
would  permit  him  to  commit  this  sacrilege. 


346  The  Spell  of  Holland 

However  much  the  inns  of  Holland  resemble  each 
other  in  their  meals,  they  differ  greatly  in  another 
respect  —  in  the  size  of  the  vessel  in  which  hot  water 
is  brought  you  in  the  morning.  The  first  Dutch  words 
you  will  have  to  learn  are  "  heet  water,"  pronounced 
"  hate  vaatare,"  for  very  few  chambermaids  in  Holland 
know  any  English,  and  "  hot  water "  is  incompre- 
hensible to  them.  In  the  smaller  inns  they  are  fre- 
quently so  frightened  by  the  appearance  of  a 
foreigner  that  they  don't  understand  their  own  lan- 
guage, but  run  and  call  the  head-waiter  as  soon  as 
you  ring  your  bell.  At  Kampen,  the  head-waiter 
himself  knew  no  English,  but  answered  our  ring,  as  the 
chambermaid,  of  whom  I  caught  not  a  glimpse,  evi- 
dently feared  these  strange  demons  from  across  the 
sea  too  much  even  to  look  at  them.  Well,  we  would 
ring  the  bell,  the  head-waiter  would  appear,  we  would 
tell  him  what  we  wanted,  he  would  nod  as  though 
he  thoroughly  understood,  and  then  run  away  with 
his  knees  knocking  together  to  summon  the  proprietor ; 
and  then  the  proprietor  would  himself  come  and  take 
our  order. 

I  remember  now  that  the  chambermaid  did  appear 
one  morning  —  I  suppose  the  head-waiter  had  not  yet 
arrived  —  blanched  visibly  when  I  opened  the  door, 
and  turned  to  flee  at  the  first  word.  But  I  grabbed 
her  wrist  and  dragged  her  into  the  room,  and  led 
her  to  the  water-pitcher  and  pointed  to  it,  and  put  my 
hand  against  it  and  then  jerked  it  away  as  though  it 
had  been  burnt,  and  kept  repeating  "  Heet  water,"  over 


Among  Dutch  Inns  347 

and  over  to  her;  and  finally  a  little  colour  came  back 
into  her  face,  and  she  laughed  and  nodded  and  ran 
away  to  get  the  hot  water;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
related  her  wonderful  adventure  in  great  detail  to 
the  other  servants. 

It  was  at  Kampen  that  the  morning  supply  of  hot 
water  reached  its  minimum.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
first  morning  when,  in  answer  to  our  demand  for  hot 
water,  the  head-waiter  proudly  handed  in  a  tray  on 
which  was  an  individual  coffee-pot,  of  white  porcelain, 
holding  about  a  pint.  I  lifted  the  lid  and  looked  in, 
thinking  that  they  had  perhaps  misunderstood  what 
we  wanted  and  brought  a  morning  dram  of  coffee; 
but  no,  it  was  hot  water.  I  told  the  waiter  that 
wasn't  enough.  He  nodded,  and  ran  for  the  pro- 
prietor. So  I  told  the  proprietor  that  two  people 
couldn't  make  a  toilet  with  one  small  coffee-potful  of 
hot  water.  He  agreed  with  me,  and  went  away,  and 
presently  the  head-waiter  came  back,  and  handed  in, 
with  beaming  face,  another  tray  with  another  little 
coffee-pot  of  hot  water  on  it,  precisely  like  the  first. 
Every  morning  after  that,  in  came  the  tray  with  the 
two  little  coffee-pots  of  hot  water  and  they  were  all  so 
pleased  over  it,  so  delighted  to  have  found  a  solution 
to  a  problem  so  difficult,  that  we  hadn't  the  heart 
to  disillusion  them.  It  was  amusing,  however,  to 
have  two  pots  of  exactly  the  same  size  and  shape 
brought  in  to  us  at  breakfast,  a  little  later,  only  this 
time  full  of  coffee.  It  was  very  good  coffee,  and 
certainly,  in  respect  to  it,  we  had  no  reason  to  com- 


348  The  Spell  of  Holland 

plain  of  the  quantity!  But  I  have  since  thought  that 
perhaps  Kampen  deserves  its  reputation,  after  all. 

I  have  already  said,  somewhere,  that  Dutch  beds 
are  all  that  could  be  desired  from  the  standpoint  of 
comfort  and  cleanliness,  and  Betty  was  never  weary 
of  admiring  the  linen  sheets  and  embroidered  pillow- 
cases and  woollen  blankets,  very  light  and  soft.  There 
was  another  thing,  too,  she  was  always  looking  at, 
and  that  was  the  beautiful  old  furniture,  in  which 
most  of  these  inns  are  rich.  And  then,  again,  there 
were  the  exquisite  silver  spoons,  so  delicate  and  shell- 
like,  which  decked  the  breakfast-table  at  Kampen; 
and  the  old  dishes  at  Enkhuisen.  .  .  . 

Tipping  in  Holland  is  by  no  means  the  evil  it  is 
in  other  parts  of  Europe.  Indeed,  in  the  smaller  towns, 
one  is  inclined  to  suspect  that  these  sturdy  Dutchmen 
rather  resent  a  tip.  Outside  of  the  big  cities  —  and 
Scheveningen  and  Marken  —  there  are  no  beggars. 
Certainly  the  children  never  beg,  as  they  do  in  France 
and  Belgium;  the  waiters  in  the  restaurants  do  not 
watch  you  hungry-eyed  as  you  prepare  to  leave ;  there 
is  no  line  of  servants  waiting  to  bid  you  adieu  at  the 
door  of  your  inn.  Always  we  have  had  to  summon 
the  chambermaid  in  order  to  fee  her,  and  she  usually 
looked  genuinely  astonished. 

And  everywhere  you  will  meet  with  courtesy  and 
attention;  everywhere  your  comfort  will  be  planned 
for,  and  your  every  wish  fulfilled,  if  it  is  at  all  possible 
to  fulfil  it.  Often,  the  proprietor  will  ask  you  in 
the  morning  if  there  is  any  special  dish  you  would  like 


Among  Dutch  Inns  349 

for  dinner,  and,  if  it  is  within  the  powers  of  the  chef, 
it  will  be  included  in  the  bill  of  fare.  More  than  that, 
you  will  leave  each  inn  with  the  feeling  that  not  only 
have  you  been  well-treated,  but  that  you  have  been 
charged  exactly  what  everyone  else  is  charged  for  the 
same  service,  and  that  no  slightest  advantage  has  been 
taken  of  the  fact  that  you  are  a  stranger  to  the  country. 
We  stayed  at  perhaps  twenty  inns  in  Holland,  and  ate 
at  innumerable  restaurants;  and  I  do  not  remember 
a  single  disputable  item  on  any  bill,  or  a  single  over- 
charge. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  higher  tribute  I  can  pay 
Dutch  innkeepers  than  that! 


CHAPTER  XXV 
I 

THE   HILLS  OF   HOLLAND 


WE  left  Kampen  the  morning  after  our  trip  to 
Urk,  accompanied  to  the  door  of  the  Pays-Bas  by 
our  host  and  his  sister,  who  bade  us  good-bye  with 
many  wishes  for  a  safe  and  pleasant  journey.  We 
had  first  to  return  to  Zwolle,  and  from  there  started 
southward  toward  Arnhem:  that  earthly  paradise 
—  or  so  the  Dutch  consider  it. 

From  Zwolle  southwards,  the  train  runs  through 
a  country  of  orchards  and  fine  gardens  —  the  first 
orchards  of  any  size  we  had  seen  in  Holland.  Broad 
wheat-fields,  too,  stretched  on  either  side  the  road, 
with  the  grain  yellow  and  ready  for  the  harvest.  The 
fields  were  bright  with  scarlet  poppies,  forming  a 
delightful  colour  contrast  with  the  brown  stalks  of 
the  wheat.  We  were  soon  in  the  midst  of  a  rich 
country,  dotted  with  handsome,  well-kept  farmsteads. 
Ditches  and  canals  grew  fewer,  and  an  occasional 
close-cropped  hedge  attested  the  fact  that  we  were 
getting  into  the  higher  part  of  Holland.  Another 
indication  was  the  appearance  of  firs  —  first  little 
patches  of  scrubby  ones,  and  then  larger  and  larger 
ones,  until  at  last  every  road  was  shaded  by  long 

350 


The  Hills  of  Holland  351 

avenues  of  very  lofty  ones,  and  stretches  of  forest 
made  the  air  fragrant. 

Deventer  is  a  clean  and  pretty  little  town,  shaded 
by  these  beautiful  trees,  but  it  is  scarcely  worth  a 
visit  even  from  the  most  leisurely  traveller.  As  the 
train  ran  on  toward  Zutphen,  the  air  grew  so  cool 
that  a  wrap  was  necessary.  It  was  evident  that  there 
had  been  much  rain  in  the  neighbourhood,  for  the  low 
fields  were  flooded  and  the  banks  of  rivers  and  canals 
were  marked  only  by  the  rows  of  pollards  sticking 
out  of  the  water.  We  learned  afterwards  that  the 
Rhine  was  in  flood;  and  when  the  Rhine  is  in  flood, 
nearly  every  other  stream  in  Holland  feels  the 
effect. 

Zutphen  is  a  pretty,  modern  town,  reached  by  a 
great  iron  bridge  over  the  Ijssel.  It  is  worth  a  visit, 
if  only  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  old  chapter- 
house attached  to  the  Groote  Kerk,  with  its  chained 
books.  Everyone  has  read,  of  course,  of  the  old 
libraries  where  the  books  were  chained  to  the  reading- 
desks  in  order  to  ensure  them  against  theft.  Well, 
here  is  one  of  these  libraries  still  in  existence,  each 
of  the  old  black-letter  volumes  with  a  hasp  at  the 
back  through  which  the  desk-chain  is  secured. 

The  church  itself  is  not  remarkable,  and  only  a 
few  of  the  old  buildings  still  look  down  on  the  quiet 
streets,  which,  on  that  winter  day  in  1572,  when  the 
Spaniards  marched  into  the  town,  literally  ran  with 
blood.  For  Alva  had  ordered  that  not  a  man  was  to 
be  left  alive,  and  that  every  house  was  to  be  burned 


352  The  Spell  of  Holland 

—  a  command  which  was  religiously  obeyed.  "  As 
the  work  of  death  became  too  fatiguing  for  the 
butchers,"  says  Motley,  "  five  hundred  innocent 
burghers  were  tied  two  and  two,  back  to  back,  and 
drowned  like  dogs  in  the  river  Yssel."  One  wishes 
that  Motley  had  omitted  from  that  sentence  the  words 
"  like  dogs,"  but  such  faults  of  taste  are  not  infre- 
quent in  his  great  history. 

Fourteen  years  after  that  massacre,  a  force  of 
English  and  Dutch  fell  upon  a  Spanish  convoy  advan- 
cing to  the  relief  of  the  city,  then  besieged,  and  in  the 
skirmish  that  followed,  an  English  volunteer  was 
wounded  in  the  thigh.  That  volunteer  was  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  and  he  died  at  Arnhem,  the  victim  of  bun- 
gling surgery,  twenty-six  days  later. 

It  is  upon  this  same  river  Ijssel,  in  which  so  many 
of  Zutphen's  burghers  lost  their  lives,  that  the  town's 
prosperity  depends;  for  the  river  brings  to  its  gates 
great  rafts  of  timber  from  German  forests,  which  are 
here  divided  and  distributed  over  all  Holland. 

Beyond  Zutphen,  the  country  takes  on  more  and 
more  the  appearance  of  a  magnificent  park,  or  pleasure- 
ground —  which,  indeed,  it  is.  For  it  is  at  Arnhem 
and  in  its  neighbourhood  that  many  of  the  Dutchmen 
made  rich  by  residence  in  the  East  Indies,  or  by  the 
East  Indian  trade,  have  chosen  to  make  their  homes. 
Those  homes  are  in  the  shape  of  handsome  villas, 
much  larger  and  more  elaborate  than  those  we  saw 
about  Haarlem,  and  are  placed  usually  at  the  summit 
of  a  long  slope,  down  which  a  vista  has  been  cleared 


The  Hills  of  Holland 353 

to  give  a  view  into  the  valley.  For  there  are  hills 
here;  not  very  high  ones,  it  is  true,  and  yet  very  high 
for  Holland.  It  is  for  this  reason  the  Dutch  think  this 
neighbourhood  so  beautiful. 

Arnhem  itself  is  really  a  sort  of  health-resort;  a 
modern  town  with  little  that  is  characteristically  Dutch 
about  it;  the  capital  of  Guelderland,  and  a  bustling 
place  where  the  traveller  in  search  of  the  quaint  and 
interesting  will  find  little  reason  to  remain.  The 
environs  are  picturesque,  and  the  Dutch  esteem  them 
highly,  for  hills  and  forests  are  unusual  luxuries  to 
them.  But  Americans  have  at  home  scenery  far  more 
picturesque,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should 
go  to  Holland  to  linger  among  this.  As  I  have  said, 
Arnhem  is  the  earthly  paradise  of  Dutchmen,  and  they 
are  always  advising  the  traveller  to  go  there.  But 
the  things  of  real  interest  to  the  stranger  in  Holland 
are  not  its  health-resorts,  with  new  hotels  and  smart 
villas,  but  its  little  old  towns,  unchanged  for  centuries, 
and  the  simple,  honest,  and  unaffected  people  who 
live  in  them. 

Arnhem  has,  however,  an  interesting  church.  It 
looms  high  over  the  Groote  Markt,  with  a  massive 
tower;  and  its  flying  buttresses  at  once  attract  the 
eye,  they  are  so  rare  in  Holland.  But  here  in  the 
east,  stone  was  cheaper  and  more  plentiful  than  in 
the  west,  and  so  was  used  with  much  greater  pro- 
fusion. The  flying  buttresses  are  very  flat,  the  result 
of  an  unusually  high  triforium  and  low  clerestory. 
The  carving  on  the  buttresses  and  around  the  door- 


354  The  Spell  of  Holland 

ways  of  the  church  must  once  have  been  very  elab- 
orate and  beautiful,  but  it  is  now  almost  entirely  worn 
away. 

Inside  there  is  another  unique  feature,  for  the  in- 
terior is  not  whitewashed,  but  the  soft  gray  stone 
has  been  left  as  nature  made  it.  The  pillars,  too,  are 
clustered,  instead  of  round,  while  nave  and  choir  are 
both  very  high,  with  stone  vaulting  and  simple  but 
effective  groining.  There  is  an  ambulatory  around 
the  choir,  and  two  of  the  central  pillars  have  queer, 
rug-like  decorations  painted  on  them,  as  at  Haarlem. 
The  west  end  of  the  nave  is,  of  course,  closed  in  by 
a  towering  organ;  and  there  is  the  usual  carved 
pulpit  and  huddled  pews.  The  whole  church  is  under- 
going a  careful  restoration. 

In  the  choir,  which  has  a  handsome  screen,  is  an 
interesting  monument  —  that  of  Charles  van  Egmont, 
Duke  of  Gueldres,  who  died  in  1538,  after  a  life- 
time spent  in  opposing  the  encroachments  of  Emperor 
Charles  V.  The  tomb  shows  the  duke,  in  full  armour, 
recumbent  upon  a  slab  of  black  marble.  On  the  sides 
of  the  tomb  are  a  number  of  beautifully-sculptured 
marble  panels,  the  twelve  apostles,  together  with  St. 
Elizabeth,  the  Holy  family,  and  St.  Christopher.  I 
do  not  remember  having  seen  anywhere  more  exqui- 
site work. 

On  the  north  wall  above  the  tomb,  beneath  a  wooden 
canopy,  is  a  kneeling  figure  of  the  duke,  in  wax, 
wearing  a  suit  of  his~  armour,  and  very  lifelike.  I 
wonder  that  Madame  Tussaud  has  not  acquired  it. 


The  Hills  of  Holland  355 

The  guide  to  the  church  announces  that  the  tower 
contains  a  "  fine  peel  of  bells,"  dating  from  1650. 

A  good  idea  of  the  environs  of  Arnhem  may  be 
had  by  a  walk  or  drive  along  the  Velp  road,  glimpses 
of  which  you  have  seen  from  the  train  windows  on 
the  way  from  Zutphen.  At  Klarenbeck,  a  beautiful 
avenue  of  beeches  leads  to  the  ruins  of  an  old  Car- 
thusian monastery,  and  from  there  a  path  climbs 
upward  to  the  summit  of  the  Klarenberg,  where  some 
old  stone  seats  from  the.  cloister  below  have  been 
placed,  enabling  the  visitor  to  sit  down  and  enjoy  at 
leisure  the  pretty  view  along  the  valley  of  the  river. 

Just  south  of  Arnhem,  and  not  many  miles  away, 
stands  the  old  town  of  Nijmwegen,  founded  by  the 
Romans  and  built,  like  Rome,  on  an  amphitheatre 
of  seven  hills.  Only  these  hills  rise,  not  from  the 
bank  of  the  Tiber,  but  from  the  Waal.  The  town 
is  approached  from  across  the  river,  and  the  prospect 
of  the  old  red  roofs  huddled  about  the  great  church 
which  dominates  the  town  from  the  crest  of  the  high- 
est hill  is  very  picturesque.  In  fact,  there  are  few 
more  picturesque  towns  in  Holland,  and  I  would 
strongly  recommend  staying  here  rather  than  at 
Arnhem,  which  is  only  ten  miles  away,  and  which 
may  be  visited  from  here  very  conveniently. 

We  are  getting  down  toward  Belgium  now,  and 
Nijmwegen  strikes  one  as  resembling  the  old  Belgian 
cities  more  than  it  does  the  Dutch  ones.  For  there 
are  no  canals,  but  narrow,  crooked  streets  running 


356 The  Spell  of  Holland 

steeply  up  and  down  the  hills;  and  the  houses,  while 
old  and  picturesque  enough,  heaven  knows,  are  not 
built  high  and  narrow,  with  many-stepped  gables,  as 
on  the  soft  soil  of  western  Holland.  Here  in  Nijmwe- 
gen,  indeed,  one  can  almost  fancy  oneself  in  Ghent 
or  Bruges. 

There  is  a  tram  leads  from  the  station  up  into  the 
old  town,  and  it  is  as  well  to  take  it,  for  the  modern 
residential  quarter  extends  back  from  the  station  for 
a  long  way  and  is  not  worth  traversing  on  foot.  Just 
opposite  the  station  is  a  very  nice  hotel,  named  after 
the  house  of  Orange,  with  a  most  hospitable  land- 
lord ;  but  it  is  not  an  inn  and  has  long  since  outgrown 
the  Dutch  breakfast. 

The  country  about  Nijmwegen  is  just  as  rich  in 
romantic  scenery  as  that  about  Arnhem,  and,  as  the 
afternoon  of  our  arrival  was  a  singularly  bright  and 
pleasant  one,  we  decided  to  explore  it  without  delay. 
The  chief  vantage-point  is  the  Burg  en  Daal,  and  to 
this  a  tram  runs  from  the  station,  mounting  between 
handsome  villas  and  through  fragrant  woods,  and 
discharging  its  passengers  in  front  of  the  beautiful 
grounds  of  the  Hotel  Burg  en  Daal  —  surely  a  good 
place  for  any  person  with  tired  nerves  to  spend  a  week 
or  two.  A  walk  through  the  grounds  leads  to  the 
observation  platform  overlooking  the  valley,  and  a 
very  pleasing  view  it  is. 

From  there  a  path  called  the  "  Berg  Weg,"  or  hill 
road,  leads  down  through  the  woods  into  the  valley. 
We  took  it  very  leisurely,  for  it  was  a  relief  to  be  in 


The  Hills  of  Holland  357 

the  woods  and  in  hilly  country  again,  after  our  long 
sojourn  on  flat  and  woodless  plains.  Half-way  down, 
we  were  stopped  by  a  bright- faced  old  man,  the  park 
watch,  who  had  a  little  lodge  there  and  who  wanted 
to  talk  and,  incidentally,  sell  a  few  postcards.  When 
he  learned  that  we  were  from  America,  he  took  us 
into  his  lodge  and  insisted  that  we  sign  his  visitors' 
book,  for  we  were  the  first  Americans  who  had  come 
that  way  that  season.  While  we  were  thus  engaged, 
a  party  of  Dutch  tourists  came  in,  and  the  old  man 
explained  to  them,  with  great  excitement,  that  we 
had  come  from  across  the  ocean,  and  here  we  were 
in  his  little  cottage,  writing  our  names  in  his  book. 
Was  it  not  wonderful! 

A  little  farther  down  the  hill,  the  path  led  us  to 
the  village  of  Beek,  evidently  a  summer-resort,  with 
many  gay  villas  in  the  flamboyant  modern  Dutch  style, 
and  beautiful  glimpses  of  the  flooded  valley  below. 
From  here,  another  tram  took  us  back  to  Nijmwegen, 
and  landed  us  in  front  of  the  hotel. 

The  town  was  en  fete  that  night,  for  a  big  electrical 
exposition  was  in  progress;  but  we,  who  had  seen 
our  fill  of  electric  signs  on  Broadway,  would  have 
preferred  the  quieter  normal  life  of  the  town.  But 
even  the  electric  signs  could  not  destroy  its  mediaeval 
flavour,  and  the  less  important  streets  were  as  dark 
and  mysterious  and  promising  of  romance  as  could 
be  desired.  As  we  made  our  way  along  them,  a  boy's 
voice  suddenly  rose  behind  us,  singing  shrilly,  and 
went  on  down  the  street,  and  melted  away  in  the  dis- 


358  The  Spell  of  Holland 

tance;  and  I  thought  of  Gavroche  and  of  his  midnight 
promenade  through  the  streets  of  Paris  on  the  way 
to  the  barricade. 

Seen  by  daylight,  old  Nijmwegen  is  a  perpetual 
delight.  It  clusters  about  a  market-place  which  might 
be  transferred  bodily  to  the  comic-opera  stage,  with  an 
old  weigh-house  and  fleshers'  hall  looking  down  upon 
it,  and  the  tower  of  the  church  just  round  the  corner. 
The  upper  part  of  the  fleshers'  hall  is  used  as  a  police 
headquarters,  as  we  found  when  we  tried  to  enter. 
Three  or  four  policemen  came  running  out  to  see  what 
the  matter  was,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  we 
made  them  understand  that  no  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted, but  that  we  had  merely  made  a  mistake.  We 
had  lunch  at  a  little  cafe  overlooking  the  market-place, 
and  watched  a  gang  of  men  sweeping  up  the  debris 
of  the  market  which  had  just  ended. 

A  little  farther  on  is  the  stadhuis,  dating  from  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century;  not  especially  inter- 
esting without,  but  containing  some  old  oak  magis- 
trates' stalls,  almost  as  beautiful  as  those  at  Kampen. 
It  was  here  that,  in  1678,  the  peace  between  France, 
Spain,  and  the  United  Netherlands  was  signed.  There 
is  also  a  museum  in  the  building,  with  some  beautiful 
examples  of  old  silversmiths'  work,  as  well  as  some 
objects  of  historical  interest,  of  more  or  less  doubt- 
ful authenticity.  And  there  is  also  one  of  the  wooden 
barrels,  or  petticoats,  in  which,  in  the  old  days,  the 
errant  wives  of  Nijmwegen  were  condemned  to  stand 
exposed  to  the  gaze  of  the  jeering  multitude. 


The  Hills  of  Holland 359 

From  the  market-place  a  narrow  street  leads  to 
the  old  church  of  St.  Stephen,  standing  in  the  midst 
of  a  picturesque  huddle  of  red-roofed  houses,  which 
lean  against  it  on  all  sides  and  completely  shut  it  in. 
The  church  is  gray,  and  stained,  and  weather-beaten, 
with  its  carvings  all  but  washed  away.  At  the  tran- 
sept entrance,  is  a  very  handsome  pavilion,  where  the 
carvings,  having  been  more  or  less  protected  from 
the  weather,  are  still  reminiscent  of  their  former 
beauty. 

The  church  is  a  very  old  one,  for  it  was  begun 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  completed  by  the  middle 
of  the  fourteenth.  It  was  originally  stone-vaulted 
throughout,  but  the  vaulting  in  the  nave  grew  danger- 
ous, and  was  finally  taken  down  and  replaced  by  barrel- 
vaulting.  All  the  traceries  are  gone  from  the  windows, 
which  are  filled  in  with  ordinary  window-glass,  held 
in  narrow  frames,  and  the  interior  is  whitewashed 
from  top  to  bottom,  every  inch  of  it.  The  whitewash- 
ing is  even  extended  outside  to  the  pavilion  over  the 
transept  entrance.  There  is  an  ambulatory  with  radi- 
ating chapels;  and  in  the  choir  is  the  monument  of 
Catherine  of  Bourbon.  The  koster  who  took  us 
around  was  especially  proud  of  the  carved  pulpit  and 
the  carved  doors. 

Nijmwegen  also  has  its  park  or  public  pleasure- 
ground  laid  out  on  an  eminence  above  the  valley  of  the 
Waal,  and  called  the  Valkhof  —  you  may,  perhaps, 
remember  seeing  Jan  van  Goyen's  painting  of  it  at 
the  Rijks.  It  is  a  historic  spot,  for  there  among  the 


360  The  Spell  of  Holland 

trees  stand  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  where  Charle- 
magne once  lived  —  a  castle  which  would  be  stand- 
ing yet  in  its  entirety  but  for  the  vandalism  of  the 
French  sansculottes,  who  destroyed  it  in  1796.  A 
little  distance  away,  is  the  castle  chapel,  a  tower-like, 
sixteen-sided  structure,  consecrated  by  Pope  Leo  III. 
in  799.  That,  I  think,  is  the  most  venerable  building 
still  standing  in  Holland. 

From  the  edge  of  the  Valkhof  overlooking  the  river, 
the  huddled  roofs  of  the  old  town  may  be  seen  below, 
most  charming  and  picturesque,  and  beyond  the  river 
the  flat  plains  stretching  away  to  the  north.  It  is  a 
place  to  linger  in. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

INTO    ZEELAND 

OUR  host  at  the  Oranje  had,  at  one  period  of  his 
life,  visited  Chicago,  a  fact  which  seemed  to  give 
Americans  an  especial  claim  upon  his  consideration, 
and  he  accompanied  us  to  the  door  next  morning 
wishing  us  good  fortune  and  pleasant  days.  We  left 
Nijmwegen  regretfully  —  as  we  had  so  many  other 
Dutch  towns  —  and  left,  too,  the  hilly  part  of  Hol- 
land; for  we  were  soon  rolling  through  a  country 
typically  Dutch  —  the  old,  familiar,  and  beloved  land- 
scape with  its  canals,  and  tree-bordered  roads,  and 
flat  fields,  and  grazing  cows. 

At  Nijmwegen  we  had  seen  our  first  Brabant  head- 
dresses —  a  white  cap  with  a  long  tail,  with  a  wreath 
of  artificial  flowers  around  the  top,  and  wide  white 
ribbons  hanging  down  on  either  side.  Now,  as  it 
was  Sunday,  the  people  along  the  roads  were  decked 
out  in  similar  finery,  going  to  church  on  foot  or  in  their 
high  carts.  Dutch  wagons,  I  have  observed,  are  built 
pretty  much  in  the  shape  of  a  boat,  perhaps  because 
at  first  their  owners  were  uncertain  whether  they  would 
have  to  be  used  on  land  or  water,  and  so  built  them 
suitable  for  either. 

361 


362  The  Spell  of  Holland 

We  left  the  train  at  'S  Hertogenbosch  —  which  re- 
markable word  is  the  Dutch  of  the  French  Bois-le- 
Duc,  or  Duke's  Wood;  a  strange  name  for  a  town, 
surely,  and  given  to  it  because  it  grew  up  in  a  wood 
belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Brabant.  It  reminds  one 
of  'S  Gravenhage,  The  Count's  Enclosure,  of  which 
I  have  already  had  occasion  to  speak. 

It  was  in  1196  that  Duke  Henry  of  Brabant  had 
a  portion  of  the  wood  cleared  and  built  himself  a 
castle  here  in  order  to  curb  the  robbers  and  cut-throats 
who  were  making  the  forest  their  rendezvous.  A 
town,  of  course,  sprang  up  around  the  castle,  and  so 
began  that  "  city  which  held  the  fourth  place  among 
the  four  capital  towns  of  Brabant,  and  which  is  called 
in  Dutch  'S  Hertogenbosch,  in  Latin  Silva  Ducis,  and 
in  French  Bois-le-Duc."  In  less  than  a  century  it 
was  an  opulent  city,  and  its  growth  was  only  curbed 
by  the  progress  of  the  struggle  against  Spain.  This 
portion  of  the  country  was  always  strongly  Catholic; 
so  little  Dutch,  indeed,  that  a  few  days  after  the 
murder  of  William  the  Silent,  a  Te  Deum  was  sung 
in  the  cathedral  here  to  celebrate  the  event.  But  in 
1629,  Frederick  Henry  of  Nassau  captured  the  town 
after  a  memorable  siege,  and  the  province  became  a 
part  of  the  United  Netherlands.  But  it  has  always 
remained  Catholic. 

It  is  the  cathedral  in  which  that  Te  Deum  was  sung 
which  to-day  compels  a  visit  to  the  town,  for  it  shares 
with  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  at  Kampen,  the 
honour  of  being  the  most  important  mediaeval  church 


Into  Zeeland  363 


in  Holland.  It  far  surpasses  the  other  in  richness 
of  decoration  —  in  fact,  it  is  ornamented  with  an  ex- 
traordinary lavishness  which  reminds  one  of  the  cathe- 
dral at  Rouen.  The  French  influence  is  very  percep- 
tible, and  the  fact  that  stone  is  used  throughout  adds 
greatly  to  its  beauty. 

The  exterior  decoration,  indeed,  is  carried  to  the 
nth  degree.  For  example,  each  of  the  flying  but- 
tresses has  five  riders  sitting  astride  it,  and  a  lion  bear- 
ing a  shield  stands  at  the  point  where  it  joints  the  but- 
tress. Every  finial  is  surmounted  by  a  statuette,  and 
there  is  a  statue  in  each  of  the  innumerable  niches 
across  the  front  and  along  the  sides. 

The  richness  of  the  transept  entrance  may  be  seen 
from  the  photograph  opposite  page  362;  and  also 
the  squat,  plain,  unlovely  tower  at  the  western  end, 
evidently  an  addition  of  a  later  and  cruder  date,  which, 
I  hope,  will  some  day  be  replaced  by  a  tower  more  in 
keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  structure.  The  stone 
of  which  the  church  was  built  seems  very  soft,  for  it 
has  crumbled  and  disintegrated  under  the  action  of 
wind  and  rain  until  the  ancient  carvings  are  mere 
shapeless  masses.  If  you  will  look  at  the  buttresses 
around  the  choir  chapels,  in  the  photograph,  you  will 
see  how  they  have  dwindled  away.  Forward  of  the 
choir,  a  careful  restoration  has  been  accomplished,  and 
is  going  steadily  on.  But  it  is  a  virtual  rebuilding. 

The  interior  is,  of  course,  well  preserved  and  is 
very  beautiful.  Here  there  is  no  whitewash,  but  the 
natural  gray  of  the  stone;  here,  too,  are  statues  of 


364  The  Spell  of  Holland 

the  apostles  against  the  clustered  pillars  of  the  nave, 
a  high  altar  gleaming  with  candles,  chapels  with 
altars  and  pictures,  the  smell  of  incense  —  in  a  word, 
all  the  pageantry  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church; 
for  this  building  has  never  passed  from  Catholic 
control. 

The  nave  is  very  lofty,  supported  by  clustered  pil- 
lars, flanked  by  double  aisles,  with  stone  vaulting 
throughout.  The  triforium,  pierced  and  trilobed,  is 
high  and  graceful,  and  the  flowing  window  traceries 
all  that  could  be  desired.  The  ambulatory  is  sur- 
rounded by  radiating  chapels;  and  in  the  north  tran- 
sept is  the  lady-chapel,  dating  from  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  Its  great  treasure  is  an  image  of 
the  Virgin,  also  dating  from  the  thirteenth  century, 
which  is  highly  venerated,  and  is  known  all  over  south- 
ern Holland  as  "  de  Zoete  Moeder  van  den  Bosch," 
or  "  The  Sweet  Mother  of  the  Wood."  Many  mira- 
cles are  attributed  to  it,  and  during  the  annual  festival 
which  takes  place  at  'S  Hertogenbosch  during  the 
latter  part  of  July,  it  is  carried  through  the  streets  in 
solemn  procession. 

'S  Hertogenbosch,  it  should  be  remembered,  is  the 
capital  of  the  province  of  North  Brabant,  and  not  very 
far  away  across  the  Scheldt  is  Brabant  proper.  The 
whole  impression  here  is  of  a  people  more  Flemish  than 
Dutch;  and  the  town  itself  deepens  that  impression. 
There  is  little  to  detain  one,  once  the  cathedral  has 
been  seen.  The  museum,  known  officially  as  "  De  Mu- 
seum van  het  Provinciaal  Genootschaap  van  Kunst  en 


Into  Zeeland  365 


Wetenschappen  in  Noord-brabant,"  contains  a  lot  of 
curios,  but  they  are  of  slight  interest  except  to  the 
antiquary. 

West  of  'S  Hertogenbosch,  the  train  runs  across 
vast  stretches  of  waste  land,  evidently  subject  to 
inundation;  with  thickets  of  scrub-pine  growing  on 
the  higher  tracts,  and  the  lower  ones  covered  with 
mud.  The  ground  must  be  very  soft,  and  this  soft- 
ness results  in  many  inequalities  in  the  bed  of  the  rail- 
road, which  makes  this  stretch  of  track  one  of  the 
roughest  I  have  ever  ridden  over. 

Past  Tilburg  we  went,  a  manufacturing  town  with 
nothing  of  interest  to  the  stranger;  past  Breda,  where 
one  thinks  of  Velazquez's  deathless  painting;  past 
Bergen  op  Zoom,  with  its  great  church;  and  then 
presently  we  are  in  Zeeland,  that  most  picturesque  of 
provinces,  where  every  journey  to  Holland  should 
either  begin  or  end. 

Zeeland,  which,  of  course,  means  "  Sea-land,"  is 
well-named,  for  it  is  more  nearly  amphibious  than  any 
other  land  on  earth.  The  arms  of  Zeeland  show  a 
lion  struggling  in  the  ocean,  and  its  motto  is  "  Luctor 
et  Emerge,"  "  I  Struggle  and  I  Emerge."  But  it 
doesn't  always  emerge;  sometimes  it  sinks  when  a 
great  storm  drives  the  ocean  up  the  bays  and  over 
the  dykes,  and  then  there  is  weary  work  shutting  the 
sea  out  again.  This  battle  has  been  going  on  for 
many  centuries,  and  will,  no  doubt,  always  continue; 
though,  of  course,  the  province  grows  safer  with  the 


366 The  Spell  of  Holland 

advance  of  engineering.  But  it  is  really  nothing  but 
a  series  of  low  islands,  separated  by  wide  estuaries, 
and  it  can  never  regard  the  ocean  with  indifference 
or  contempt. 

Perhaps  because  it  is  thus  isolated  from  the  rest 
of  the  world,  Zeeland  has  kept  its  old  costumes  and 
its  old  customs  more  nearly  unchanged  than  any  other 
of  the  Dutch  provinces,  and  hence  it  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  to  visit.  More  especially  so  since  its 
capital,  Middleburg,  is  the  most  charming  of  Dutch 
cities.  As  I  have  said,  all  tours  in  Holland  should 
begin  or  end  there.  As  for  us,  we  saved  it  for  the 
last. 

Our  train,  then,  is  in  Zeeland.  It  rattles  over  a 
viaduct,  crosses  wide  stretches  of  marsh  land,  passes 
some  little  groves  with  the  trees  planted  in  straight 
rows  —  for  the  straight  line  is  the  Dutchman's  line 
of  beauty.  Along  the  roads  and  in  the  doorways  of 
near-by  houses,  we  see  men,  women,  and  children 
wearing  the  characteristic  costume  of  the  province; 
but  I  shall  not  try  to  describe  it  until  I  have  a  photo- 
graph to  assist  me. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  we 
reached  Middleburg,  which,  from  the  station,  gives 
no  promise  of  the  picturesqueness  which  reveals  itself 
as  soon  as  one  plunges  into  the  crooked  streets;  and 
after  we  had  got  comfortably  settled  at  our  hotel, 
we  sallied  forth.  For  everyone  appeared  to  be  out 
enjoying  the  fine  weather,  and  I  was  determined  to 


Into  Zeeland  367 


get  some  photographs  of  those  quaint  costumes  before 
the  opportunity  escaped. 

As  we  made  our  way  along  the  street,  we  came 
suddenly  to  a  doorway  which  was  disgorging  a  crowd 
of  people  from  a  church  service  of  some  sort,  and 
we  soon  found  that  most  of  them  were  returning  to 
their  homes  somewhere  out  in  the  country,  either 
walking  or  mounting  into  polished  Tilburys  and 
jingling  away.  So  we  followed  along,  over  the  wide 
canal  to  the  station,  across  an  overhead  bridge  above 
the  tracks,  and  down  on  the  other  side  along  a  coun- 
try-road, past  a  dear  little  village. 

Then,  as  we  turned  off  along  a  beautiful  path  across 
the  fields,  we  saw  a  family  party  coming  toward  us 
—  a  man  with  his  wife  and  little  daughter  —  all  so 
beautifully  dressed,  that  I  asked  them  if  I  might  not 
take  their  picture,  and  they  laughed  and  said  yes, 
and  you  will  find  it  opposite  the  next  page.  The  man 
wrote  his  address  in  my  note-book,  so  that  I  might 
send  him  a  print,  and  I  hope  he  liked  it.  I,  myself, 
am  rather  proud  of  that  photograph. 

The  faces  of  that  family  summarize  Dutch  char- 
acter—  the  man  strong,  self-reliant,  and  yet  good- 
natured;  the  woman  robust  and  capable;  the  child 
ruddy-cheeked  and  charming.  And  now,  with  that 
photograph  for  you  to  look  at,  there  is  little  need 
that  I  should  describe  the  Zeeland  costume.  But  there 
are  a  few  points  to  which  I  must  call  your  attention. 
One  is  that  mother  and  daughter  are  dressed  exactly 
alike,  as  father  and  son  would  have  been,  had  there 


368  The  Spell  of  Holland 

been  a  son.  Another  is  the  skin-tight  elbow  sleeves 
which  the  women  and  girls  wear  in  all  weathers. 
The  lower  part  of  the  arm  is  wholly  unprotected,  and 
is  burnt  by  the  sun  and  frozen  by  the  cold  until  it 
assumes  the  colour  of  an  over-ripe  tomato,  and  seems 
ready  to  burst  at  a  touch.  I  don't  know  whether 
they  are  painful,  but  they  certainly  look  so. 

There  is  one  detail  of  the  costume  which  shows 
but  indistinctly  in  the  photograph,  and  that  is  the 
bangles  before  the  eyes.  These  are  pendants  of  gold 
or  silver,  something  like  huge  ear-rings,  and  they 
swing  back  and  forth,  one  before  each  eye,  in  a  man- 
ner which  one  would  suppose  to  be  unbearably  annoy- 
ing. Why  they  are  worn  I  cannot  imagine,  and  they 
must  be  torture  until  the  wearer  grows  accustomed 
to  them,  and  to  the  interrupted  and  partially-obscured 
vision  which  they  enforce.  Let  me  add  that  the  clasp 
at  the  man's  throat  and  the  buttons  at  his  waist  were 
of  gold;  the  woman's  necklace  was  of  coral  with  a 
gold  clasp,  and  all  the  ornaments  of  both  mother  and 
daughter  were  of  the  same  metal. 

We  went  on,  after  that,  past  a  group  of  boys  who 
were  practising  a  topical  song  —  the  same  jumpy 
march  we  had  heard  at  Leiden;  and,  presently,  we 
had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  a  Zeeland  courtship. 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie  hereabouts;  but  the  milk- 
maids either  labour  under  the  disadvantage  of  hav- 
ing no  place  in-doors  where  their  swains  may  woo 
them  in  privacy,  or  else  they  wish  to  display  their 
lovers  to  the  world,  for,  on  Sunday  afternoons,  they 


Into  Zeeland  369 


take  them  along  when  they  go  milking.  The  girl 
goes  out  to  the  field  with  her  yoke  on  her  buxom 
shoulders,  and  her  lover  follows,  without  offering  to 
help  carry  the  burden.  Then,  when  the  cow's  tail  has 
been  tied  and  the  maid  is  safely  tucked  away  under 
her,  sending  the  milk  foaming  into  the  pail,  the  lover 
squats  down  on  his  heels  close  beside  her,  and  they 
exchange  (I  suppose)  vows  of  constancy  eternal. 

I  took  a  photograph  of  one  such  loving  pair;  but 
a  ditch  full  of  water  intervened,  so  that  I  could  not 
get  near  enough  to  make  it  effective.  You  will  find  it, 
such  as  it  is,  opposite  the  next  page,  and  if  you  look 
closely  you  will  see  the  man  a  black  smudge  by  the 
girl's  side.  Please  don't  think  I  was  intruding  when 
I  snapped  that  picture,  for  it  was  taken  with  the  full 
permission  of  both  parties.  A  crowd  of  boys  gathered 
near  the  place,  soon  afterwards,  and  shouted  raucous 
and,  I  doubt  not,  unseemly  advice  as  to  the  proper 
methods  of  courting. 

These  methods  differ  widely  in  the  various  Dutch 
provinces;  but  the  object  is  the  same  everywhere  — 
as  all  the  world  over!  —  to  find  out  if  the  maid  is 
willing.  In  North  Holland,  the  lover  knocks  at  the 
maiden's  door  with  a  huge  cake  of  gingerbread  under 
his  arm.  She  admits  him,  and  he  places  the  cake 
on  the  table.  If  she  likes  him,  she  puts  some  more 
peat  on  the  fire  and  cuts  the  cake,  and  all  is  well. 
But  if  the  fire  is  not  replenished,  he  knows  he  is  not 
wanted,  and  takes  up  his  cake  and  goes  home,  and 
presumably  comforts  himself  by  consuming  it. 


370  The  Spell  of  Holland 

• 

Over  in  Friesland,  when  the  lover  calls,  if  the 
maiden  goes  out  and  dons  her  casque  and  ornaments 
and  then  comes  back  again,  the  happy  man  knows 
that  he  has  been  accepted.  Or  sometimes  he  gives 
her  a  handkerchief  with  a  knot  in  it;  and  if  she 
unties  the  knot,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  has  won  her  heart 
—  or,  at  least,  her  hand.  It  may  be  that  the  Dutch 
lover  is  a  peculiarly  sensitive  being;  at  any  rate,  all 
of  these  ceremonies  seem  to  be  devised  for  the  pur- 
pose of  sparing  him  the  humiliation  of  a  refusal  in 
words,  or  perhaps  they  are  to  spare  the  Dutch  maiden 
the  cruel  necessity  of  saying  no.  I  do  not  know 
what  ceremonial  is  necessary  in  Zeeland  before  the 
maiden  permits  her  swain  to  sit  beside  her  in  the  gaze 
of  all  the  world  while  she  is  milking;  but  it  can  be 
no  very  exacting  one,  for  such  couples  were  frequent 
that  Sunday  afternoon. 

We  rambled  on  a  mile  or  two  into  the  country,  for 
I  wanted  to  get  a  good  photograph  of  a  girl  milking; 
but  we  saw  none  that  afternoon  that  was  approachable. 
For  you  must  remember  that  all  these  fields  are  sur- 
rounded by  ditches  full  of  water,  and  unless  you 
approach  them  on  the  side  where  the  entrance  is  you 
are  barred  out  far  more  effectively  than  by  a  fence 
or  wall. 

We  gave  it  up  after  awhile,  and  turned  back  to 
the  town,  passing  more  than  one  high  Tilbury  full  of 
beaming,  red-faced  country-folks,  who  nodded  and 
smiled  at  us  and  waved  their  hands.  Then  we  had 
dinner  at  the  Vieux  Doelen,  hoping  against  hope,  and 


Into  Zeeland  371 


vainly,  that  dinners  here  might  differ  from  other 
Dutch  dinners;  and  after  that  we  strolled  about  those 
dear  old  streets,  and  wandered  through  the  court  of 
the  gray  abbey,  and  looked  at  the  beautiful  stadhuis. 
And  then  we  drifted  into  a  picture-shop  at  the  corner 
of  the  market-place,  and  soon  found  that  we  were 
in  the  presence  of  the  Messieurs  Den  Boer,  who  make 
those  delightful  Dutch  postcards  which  everyone  has 
seen. 

In  common  with  most  other  people,  I  fancy,  I  have 
always  thought  that  the  chubby  children  in  quaint 
costume  on  those  postcards  were  especially  dressed 
and  posed;  but  that  is  not  so.  One  of  the  brothers 
roams  about  with  his  camera  and  takes  pictures  as 
he  finds  them,  and  the  best  of  them  are  selected  for 
postcard  use.  We  talked  with  him  for  quite  a  while, 
for  he  could  speak  English  very  well,  and  he  grew 
most  pathetic  over  the  way  his  pictures  were  stolen 
by  other  people  and  used  without  credit  to  him.  That 
complaint  recurred  to  me  just  the  other  day  when 
I  opened  a  magazine  to  an  article  on  Holland,  "  with 
photographs  by  the  author,"  and  found  two  of  M. 
Den  Boer's  among  them !  We  had  a  pleasant  talk  with 
him,  and  ended  by  wishing  that  we  might  one  day 
find  him  at  the  head  of  an  art-shop  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
He  thanked  us,  and  said  that  it  was  not  at  all  im- 
possible. 

It  was  rather  late  when  we  got  back  to  the  hotel, 
but  I  had  some  letters  to  write,  and  sat  down  in  the 
office  to  do  it.  And  presently  there  entered  a  taH, 


372  The  Spell  of  Holland 

thin  man,  the  twang  of  whose  voice  told  me  that  he 
was  a  Yankee.  It  was  long  past  the  dinner  hour,  and 
I  listened,  amused,  while  he  struggled  to  get  some- 
thing to  eat.  He  was  led  away  to  the  dining-room, 
finally;  and  after  a  time  he  came  back,  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair  near  me,  and  sighed,  and  took  out  a  cigar 
and  lighted  it  and  puffed  it  moodily,  staring  dismally 
at  nothing. 

I  finished  my  letter,  and  then  turned  to  him. 

"  Well,  comrade,"  I  said,  "  how's  good  old  Massa- 
chusetts?" 

He  jumped  an  inch. 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  his  face  beaming.  "  Are  you 
an  American  ?  " 

"  From  Ohio." 

"  You  missed  it  on  Massachusetts.  My  folks  came 
from  there,  but  I'm  from  Cleveland.  Can  we  get 
anything  to  drink  in  this  joint?  It  was  the  devil  and 
all  to  get  something  to  eat." 

"  Drinkables  are  easier,"  I  said,  and  lifted  a  finger 
to  the  attentive  waiter. 

And  then,  when  we  had  got  our  cigars  going,  we 
began  to  talk. 

"  It's  like  money  from  home,  meeting  you  here," 
he  said.  "  What  are  you  doing  in  this  God- forsaken 
country  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it's  God- forsaken." 

"  You  would  if  you  were  in  my  line." 

"What  line?" 

"  Harvesting  machinery." 


Into  Zeeland  373 


I  stared  at  him  for  an  instant  before  I  understood. 
And  then  I  laughed.  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  gasped,  "  that  you're  trying  to 
sell  harvesting  machinery  to  these  Dutchmen?" 

He  nodded  glumly. 

"  But  how  can  you  do  business  if  you  don't  know 
the  language?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  take  an  interpreter  along;  but  I  know  that, 
half  the  time,  he's  giving  me  the  double-cross.  I  can 
see  why  it  amuses  you,"  he  added.  "  I  was  never 
up  against  such  a  proposition  before.  Labour's  so 
cheap  over  here  that  when  you  tell  a  man  the  price 
of  a  mower  he  looks  as  though  he  were  going  to  drop 
dead.  And  even  if  you'd  give  them  away,  they 
wouldn't  take  them.  They  want  to  harvest  their  hay 
just  like  their  fathers  and  grandfathers  and  great- 
grandfathers did.  Then  their  fields  are  so  cut  up 
by  those  infernal  ditches  that  you  can  hardly  turn  a 
machine  around  in  them;  and  then  when  you  do  sell 
one  —  " 

"What!"  I  cried.  "You  haven't  really  sold 
one!" 

"I've  sold  two!" 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  admire  you.  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  it  could  be  done.  Go  ahead ! " 

"  When  they  do  buy  one,  the  first  time  some  little 
thing  happens  to  it,  they  take  it  to  the  nearest  cross- 
roads blacksmith  and  he  reconstructs  it  according  to 
ideas  of  his  own,  and  puts  it  out  of  business  for  good. 
Oh,  it's  a  sweet  job !  " 


374  The  Spell  of  Holland 

I  condoled  with  him;  and  after  awhile  we  said 
good-night,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  But  I  hope 
he  has  found  an  easier  job  than  that!  I'm  sure,  at 
least,  that  he  couldn't  have  found  a  harder  one! 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

LAST  DAYS 

IF  Delft  is  built  like  a  gridiron  and  Amsterdam 
like  a  horse-shoe,  Middleburg  is  built  like  a  wheel, 
or,  rather,  like  wheels  within  wheels.  An  abbey,  with 
its  church,  formed  the  centre  of  the  old  town,  and 
about  this  the  city  has  developed  concentrically  in 
the  na'ivest  way.  The  result  is  that,  until  one  gets 
used  to  the  town,  one  is  always  turning  up  at  the  abbey, 
and  most  surprised  to  find  oneself  there.  It  becomes 
a  sort  of  game,  at  last  —  to  get  away  from  the  abbey. 
It  would  almost  seem  that  the  old  monks  had  shrewdly 
hit  upon  this  method  of  insuring  that  every  resident 
of  the  town  would  sooner  or  later  find  his  way  into 
its  precincts. 

Which  is  one  reason  why  it  is  as  well  to  stay  at 
the  Hotel  de  Abdij,  as  the  Dutch  spell  it,  which  fronts 
upon  the  abbey  square;  one  will  never  have  any  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  back  to  it.  It  is,  besides,  a  typical 
Dutch  inn,  and  for  picturesqueness  of  situation,  in 
the  shadow  of  gray  old  walls,  has  few  rivals. 

The  abbey  of  St.  Nicholas  is  the  most  ancient  of 
structures,  and  looks  it,  for  it  was  begun  in  1106 
—  try  to  think  back  to  1106,  and  imagine  what  was 

375 


376  The  Spell  of  Holland 

going  on  in  the  world  then!  Here,  in  1505,  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece  held  what  was  perhaps 
the  most  brilliant  meeting  in  the  history  of  that  order. 
But,  with  the  expulsion  of  Spain,  the  huge  pile  of 
buildings  was  converted  to  secular  uses,  and  now 
the  council  of  the  province  of  Zeeland  meets  in  the 
old  hall  where  the  bishops  of  the  church  once  delib- 
erated. On  the  walls  are  some  Dutch  tapestries,  rep- 
resenting sea-fights  famous  in  Dutch  history.  Beneath 
the  council-room  are  two  dim,  vaulted  chambers,  and 
from  these  one  steps  out  into  the  handsome  old  clois- 
ters. It  is  like  stepping  back  into  the  Middle  Ages! 

The  abbey,  of  course,  had  its  church.  It  is  now 
the  Protestant  Nieuwe  Kerk,  and  only  the  choir,  the 
nave,  and  one  aisle  remain.  The  choir  is  much  as 
it  formerly  was,  except  that  it  is  whitewashed;  but 
it  still  has  its  old  groined  vaulting  and  window 
traceries,  from  which,  however,  the  stained  glass  has 
long  since  disappeared.  The  choir  has  been  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  church  by  a  plaster  partition, 
and  is  really  a  little  church  by  itself.  The  nave,  which 
forms  another  church,  is  as  bare  and  uninteresting  as 
four  whitewashed  walls  can  be. 

But  the  old  tower  still  stands,  and  a  magnificent 
one  it  is,  regarded  with  respect  and  affection  by  all 
good  Middleburgers,  who  call  it  "  De  Lange  Jan," 
or  "  Long  John."  It  deserves  the  adjective,  for  it  is 
nearly  three  hundred  feet  high,  and  has  stood  there 
chiming  out  the  hours  and  halves  and  quarters  and 
eighths  for  almost  two  centuries.  Yes,  it  really  does 


Last  Days  377 

chime  the  eighths,  for  the  carillon  rings  every  seven 
and  a  half  minutes.  It  has  a  beautiful  peal  of  forty- 
two  bells,  and  here,  at  last,  I  was  able  to  gratify  my 
desire  to  examine  the  mechanism  which  works  them. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sunny  afternoon  I  clam- 
bered up  those  four  hundred  stone  steps  to  the  summit, 
and,  coming  out  at  the  top  among  the  bells,  found  all 
Zeeland  at  my  feet.  Away  to  the  south  lay  Flushing, 
away  to  the  north  Veere,  marking  the  limits  of  the 
island  of  Walcheren;  away  to  the  east  was  Goes, 
with  many  little  villages  dotting  the  fields  between; 
and  around  all  this  was  water  and  still  more  water, 
upon  which  the  island  seemed  to  be  floating. 

And  there  at  my  feet  lay  quaint  old  Middleburg, 
with  its  circular  streets  very  visible,  a  most  curious 
sight;  and  its  circumference  like  a  many-pointed 
star,  with  the  river  Vest  flowing  in  strange  zig-zags 
about  it. 

While  I  sat  there  gazing  at  all  this,  the  chimes  began, 
and  I  watched  the  triple  hammers,  each  pulled  by  a 
wire,  playing  up  and  down  upon  the  bells.  Some  of 
the  hammers  were  quite  small,  and  produced  only 
a  little  tinkle,  and  others  were  very  large  and  pro- 
duced a  deep  boom.  And  while  I  was  watching  them, 
the  nice  old  man  in  charge  of  the  tower  came  out  on 
the  platform  and  asked  me  if  I  wished  to  go  into  the 
chamber  below  and  see  the  mechanism.  I  said  I  cer- 
tainly did,  and  we  went  down  together. 

That  mechanism  in  the  tower  at  Middleburg  is 
typical  of  all  the  bell  mechanisms  in  Holland,  and  it 


378  The  Spell  of  Holland 

is  very  interesting.  Its  principal  feature  is  a  brass 
cylinder  or  drum,  about  four  feet  in  diameter  and 
perhaps  eight  feet  long,  in  which  little  square  holes 
are  drilled  in  straight  lines,  and  as  close  as  possible 
together.  There  are  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
rows  of  these  holes  across  the  cylinder,  and  each  row, 
extending  around  it,  consists  of  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
four  holes  —  or  a  total  of  twenty-five  thousand  eight 
hundred  and  seventy-two.  Little  plugs  of  metal  are 
inserted  in  some  of  these  holes,  projecting  perhaps 
half  an  inch  above  the  surface  of  the  drum,  and  as 
the  drum  revolves,  these  projections  trip  the  levers 
connected  by  wires  with  the  hammers  on  the  bells 
above,  and  cause  them  to  strike.  To  change  the  tune, 
one  has  only  to  alter  the  position  of  the  plugs,  and 
a  great  variety  of  combinations  is  possible. 

In  front,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  drum,  is  a  key- 
board, just  like  a  piano  key-board,  even  to  the  sharps, 
and  each  key  of  this  key-board  corresponds  with  one 
of  the  rows  of  holes  in  the  drum.  That  is  to  say, 
a  plug  placed  in  a  row  will  produce  the  note  indicated 
by  the  key  opposite  that  row  on  the  key-board.  This 
makes  the  music-master's  task  a  comparatively  simple 
one;  and  it  should  be  noticed  that  the  range  of  one 
hundred  and  sixty-eight  notes  which  this  keyboard 
has  is  just  twice  that  of  an  ordinary  piano.  So  any 
tune  may  be  played  on  these  bells,  and  the  only  thing 
which  circumscribes  its  length  is  the  circumference  of 
the  drum,  for,  of  course,  the  air  is  repeated  after  one 
revolution.  There  is  a  governor  attached  to  the 


Last  Days  379 

mechanism  so  that  the  drum  always  revolves  smoothly 
and  at  a  certain  speed. 

The  drum  is  turned  by  means  of  a  weight,  which 
hangs  down  into  the  tower  at  the  end  of  a  long  rope. 
The  tower-keeper  informed  me  proudly  that  it  weighed 
eight  hundred  and  fifty  kilos,  or  about  two  thousand 
pounds,  and  that  he  had  to  wind  it  up  every  day.  I 
can  well  believe  it,  because  those  chimes  seem  to  be 
always  ringing. 

All  of  this  mechanism,  as  well  as  the  great  clock, 
dates  from  1715,  and  it  is  running  as  smoothly  and 
accurately  to-day  as  it  ever  did.  The  hand  on  the 
clock  jumps  forward  every  half  minute,  and  at  every 
fifteenth  jump  it  trips  a  lever  which  releases  the  drum 
and  permits  it  to  revolve.  At  the  half-hours  and 
the  hours  a  very  elaborate  air  is  played,  lasting  four 
or  five  minutes.  This  old  clock  has  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  accuracy.  There  is  another  in  the  tower  of 
the  stadhuis  which  is  somewhat  erratic.  The  Middle- 
burgers  regard  its  eccentricities  with  good-natured 
amusement,  and  call  it  "  Gekke  Betje,"  or  "  Foolish 
Betsy  " ;  but  they  set  their  time-pieces  by  the  one  at 
the  summit  of  "  Long  John." 

The  stadhuis  is  quite  equal  to  the  abbey  in  interest, 
for  it  is  the  gayest  of  buildings,  with  an  exterior  so 
elaborate,  a  tower  so  delicate,  and  a  roof  so  crowded 
with  row  on  row  of  dormers,  that  one  can  only  stand 
out  in  the  market-place  and  admire  it,  and  wonder 
at  the  inspiration  of  its  designer.  It  is  a  splendid 
example  of  late  Gothic,  dating  from  1512,  and  the 


380  The  Spell  of  Holland 

French  influence  is  very  evident  all  over  it.  A  care- 
ful restoration,  which  has  been  proceeding  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  is  almost  completed. 

You  will  find  a  picture  of  it  —  not  a  very  good 
one,  for  I  forgot  at  the  critical  moment  that  my  finder 
pointed  too  low  —  opposite  this  page ;  and  this  will 
give  you  a  better  idea  of  its  appearance  than  any  de- 
scription could  do.  Note  the  statues  of  the  Counts 
of  Zeeland  and  their  ladies,  very  properly  disposed 
two  and  two  between  the  windows  of  the  upper  story; 
and  note  the  painted  shutters  of  those  windows  — 
painted  diamond-wise,  as  all  Dutch  shutters  are,  to 
simulate  curtains.  The  work  of  restoration  is  going 
forward  behind  the  scaffolding  at  the  end,  and  here, 
too,  a  statue  of  Queen  Wilhelmina,  with  the  Princess 
Juliana  in  her  arms,  was  just  being  hoisted  into  place. 
Note  the  painted  shutters  of  the  dormers,  the  graceful 
pinnacle,  and  the  characteristic  onion-shaped  termina- 
tion of  the  tower.  I  hope  that  you  will  yourself, 
some  day,  stand  in  the  market-place  and  gaze  at  this 
beautiful  structure. 

Within,  on  the  lower  floor,  is  the  old  hall  of  jus- 
tice, a  beautiful  panelled  room,  with  carved  seats  for 
the  judges,  a  stall  for  the  prisoner,  and  benches  for 
the  advocates  and  their  clerks.  In  the  arm  of  the 
judge's  chair  a  hole  has  been  bored,  and  in  this  a 
switch  is  placed,  as  an  emblem  of  punishment.  There 
is  also  on  the  wall  the  blade  of  the  guillotine  which 
the  French  revolutionists  set  up  at  Middleburg;  long 
since  disused,  for  capital  punishment  has  been  abol- 


Last  Days  381 

ished  in  Holland.  There  is  an  old  hooded  fireplace 
at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  on  the  wall  above  it,  very 
appropriately,  a  painting  of  the  last  judgment,  with 
the  torments  of  the  damned  most  realistically  de- 
picted. 

In  the  great  hall  on  the  upper  floor  the  municipal 
museum  has  been  installed,  its  principal  treasure  the 
charter  granted  to  Middleburg  in  1253  by  William  of 
Holland,  the  first  charter  ever  given  to  any  town,  the 
precursor  of  the  Bill  of  Rights  and  our  own  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  It  is  from  the  few  and  limited 
privileges  granted  in  this  paper  by  a  monarch  to  his 
subjects  that  constitutions  have  grown,  and  civic  rights, 
and  human  freedom.  The  cups  and  emblems  of  the 
old  guilds,  once  so  powerful  in  the  city's  life,  are  pre- 
served in  cases,  and  there  are  some  other  objects  of 
interest  —  but  none  so  interesting  as  that  great  beamed 
hall  itself,  which  has  stood  there  for  four  centuries. 
From  one  of  the  windows  one  steps  out  upon  a  little 
balcony  overlooking  the  market-place.  It  was  from 
this  balcony  that  kings  and  magistrates  addressed  the 
people,  or  showed  themselves  to  their  admiring  eyes. 
To  stand  in  a  place  like  that  makes  history  live 
again ! 

I  have  said  that,  from  the  top  of  Long  John,  the- 
circumference  of  Middleburg  looks  like  a  many- 
pointed  star.  These  points,  of  course,  are  the  angles 
of  the  old  walls.  The  river  Vest  follows  all  these 
angles  just  as  the  old  moat  did.  The  walls  have 
long  since  been  replaced  by  a  pleasant  promenade; 


382  The  Spell  of  Holland 

but  the  spot  that  is  now  given  over  largely  to  love- 
making  was  once  the  scene  of  a  desperate  struggle. 
For  Middleburg,  like  so  many  other  Dutch  towns, 
has  a  siege  in  its  history;  though  it  differs  from  the 
other  sieges  in  one  important  detail;  it  was  the  Dutch 
who  besieged  the  town  and  the  Spaniards  who  de- 
fended it.  They  defended  it  well,  for  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  they  were  good  soldiers;  but  starvation 
accomplished  what  force  of  arms  could  not,  and  the 
town  was  finally  surrendered.  The  scene  which  fol- 
lowed was  also  in  strong  contrast  to  that  which 
usually  occurred  at  such  a  moment,  for,  instead  of 
being  massacred,  the  garrison  was  permitted  to  march 
away  uninjured. 

Time  was  when  Middleburg  was  one  of  the  rich- 
est and  most  powerful  cities  in  the  Netherlands. 
Along  the  Rouaansche  Kaad  the  galleons  from  Rouen 
anchored,  with  their  cargoes  of  French  wines;  at  the 
Londensche  Kaad,  the  English  ships  tied  up  to  unload 
their  cargoes  of  wool.  Those  quays  still  remain; 
their  names  are  unchanged ;  but,  alas,  the  ships  which 
once  crowded  them  have  sailed  away,  never  to  return. 

So  Middleburg's  ancient  glory  has  departed;  from 
a  great  city  she  has  become  a  quiet  and  sleepy  pro- 
vincial town.  She  is  thoroughly  wakened  up,  though, 
for  ten  days  of  every  year  —  the  last  ones  of  July 
—  for  this  is  one  of  the  few  towns  of  Holland  where 
the  kermess  survives  in  all  its  glory.  It  is  a  great 
event;  talked  about  for  six  months  after  it  is  over, 
and  planned  for  for  six  months  before  it  occurs;  the 


Last  Days  383 

ten  days  out  of  the  whole  year  which  the  peasants 
of  Walcheren  look  forward  to  as  compensating  for 
the  labour  of  the  other  three  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
It  was  not  our  good  fortune  to  see  the  kermess,  but 
if  we  ever  return  to  Middleburg,  we  shall  try  to  reach 
there  on  the  fourth  Thursday  in  July! 

I  told,  some  chapters  back,  of  my  efforts  to  get  a 
photograph  of  a  girl  milking  a  cow,  and  how  I  bungled 
it.  I  still  wanted  that  picture,  and  as  our  time  in 
Holland  was  growing  short,  I  started  out,  one  after- 
noon, determined  to  get  such  a  picture  if  it  was 
humanly  possible.  So  I  struck  out  along  the  road 
running  south  from  Middleburg,  past  little  groups  of 
houses  and  detached  farmsteads;  but  nowhere  did  I 
see  many  cows,  and  I  was  about  ready  to  turn  back 
in  despair.  At  last  I  came  to  a  field  where  some  were 
grazing,  and  determined  to  wait  until  the  milkmaids 
arrived,  hoping  against  hope  that  they  would  be  pretty 
and  in  costume. 

At  last  they  came  —  two  girls  with  the  yokes  across 
their  shoulders  —  and  my  heart  leaped,  for  not  only 
were  they  in  costume,  but  they  were  the  prettiest 
girls  I  had  seen  in  Holland.  They  half-smiled  at  me 
as  they  passed,  for  they  saw  my  camera  and  suspected 
what  I  was  after;  and  then,  when  they  were  com- 
fortably tucked  away  under  their  cows,  I  crossed  a 
plank,  which  lay  over  the  ditch,  and  ventured  to 
approach.  My  approach  was  cautious,  because,  as  I 
had  reason  to  know,  these  Dutch  cows  are  rather  shy 


384  The  Spell  of  Holland 

of  wandering  Americans  with  cameras,  and  sometimes 
run  away  and  upset  the  milk-pail,  and  raise  hob  gen- 
erally if  you  come  upon  them  too  suddenly. 

So  I  approached  this  cow  from  the  rear,  feeling 
as  though  I  were  stalking  big  game  on  the  African 
desert.  The  milkmaid  looked  up  when  she  heard  me, 
and  then  laughed  and  ducked  her  head.  Immensely 
relieved  to  find  she  didn't  object,  I  got  my  camera 
ready. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  between  my  teeth,  "  there  must  be 
no  bungling  this  time!  This  has  got  to  be  a  good 
picture.  Remember,  the  finder  points  too  low.  Oh, 
isn't  she  a  beauty!  "  and  I  pressed  the  bulb. 

I  thanked  the  girl  by  gestures  as  well  as  I  could; 
but  she  made  no  response  until  I  had  reached  the  road. 
Then  she  waved  me  good-bye,  and  I  returned  pen- 
sively to  Middleburg. 

I  had  that  film  developed  that  night  —  and  —  well, 
you  will  see  it  opposite  this  page.  Notice  the  cap  and 
the  shoes  and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the  knitted  over- 
waist,  and  how  the  cow's  tail  is  tied  to  keep  it  from 
slashing  around. 

There  is  another  costume  to  be  seen  occasionally 
in  the  streets  of  Middleburg,  and  it  is  the  most  sur- 
prising of  all.  Away  across  the  Scheldt  is  a  little 
strip  of  land  called  Flemish  Zeeland,  which  belongs 
to  Holland,  though  it  is  really  a  part  of  Belgium,  and 
its  principal  city  is  Breskens.  Sometimes  the  women 
of  Breskens  come  over  to  Middleburg  to  shop,  and 
it  is  they  who  wear  this  astonishing  costume,  the  prin- 


Last  Days  385 

cipal  feature  of  which  are  two  immense  constructions 
set  upon  the  shoulders,  which  bring  them  as  high  as 
the  top  of  the  head.  If  you  will  look  at  the  picture 
opposite  the  next  page,  which  I  took  at  Breskens  on 
our  way  to  Bruges,  you  will  see  an  example  of  this 
costume,  to  which  I  am  quite  unable  to  do  justice  in 
words. 

Of  all  the  towns  of  Holland,  Middleburg  seems  to 
me  most  characteristic  and  charming.  It  is  well  worth 
a  week  of  any  traveller's  time,  for  it  is  not  only  in- 
teresting in  itself,  but  it  is  near  many  places  of  in- 
terest. To  the  south  is  Flushing,  which  may  be 
reached  in  half  an  hour  by  steam-tram  or  train,  and 
more  pleasantly  by  boat.  It  is  a  not  very  important 
bathing-resort,  with  a  good  beach,  beloved  by  Middle- 
burgers;  but  an  English  fleet  bombarded  the  place  in 
1809,  on  an  abortive  expedition  against  Antwerp,  and 
reduced  many  of  the  old  houses,  among  them  the 
stadhuis,  to  ruins.  The  buildings  which  have  been 
raised  to  succeed  them  are  not  worth  looking  at. 

But  to  the  north,  on  the  other  side  of  the  island, 
is  a  town  of  quite  a  different  sort  —  Veere,  the 
"  ancient  and  decayed."  You  may  go  to  Veere  from 
Middleburg  by  boat ;  but  the  hours  are  rather  incon- 
venient, and  the  pleasanter  way  is  to  hire  a  carriage 
and  drive  over. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning  when  our  carriage  left 
the  hotel,  and  rattling  over  Middleburg's  cobbles, 
which  are  a  penance  whether  one  is  awheel  or  afoot, 


386  The  Spell  of  Holland 

came  presently  into  a  shady  road,  where  one  may 
avoid  the  cobbles  by  telling  the  driver  to  turn  into 
the  sidepath.  Tolls  are  collected  at  both  ends  of  this 
road  going;  but  no  tolls  are  collected  returning.  I 
wonder  why?  It  is  a  four-mile  drive,  through  a 
pleasant  and  fertile  country,  where  everyone  you  meet 
nods  and  smiles. 

Veere  revealed  itself  at  last  as  a  village  almost 
incredibly  picturesque,  with  the  quaintest  of  houses, 
some  of  them  four  centuries  old,  a  great  barn  of  a 
church,  and  a  perfect  jewel  of  a  town-hall,  high  and 
narrow,  backed  by  the  grace fulest  of  towers.  It  was 
built  in  1470  by  the  father  of  the  man  who  built  the 
one  at  Middleburg,  and  the  family  resemblance  is 
obvious.  Across  its  front  are  a  number  of  small 
figures  of  the  lords  of  Veere  and  their  wives;  just 
as,  at  Middleburg,  the  counts  of  Zeeland  and  their 
ladies  are  honoured;  and  there  is  the  same  elaborate 
ornamentation,  the  same  high  roof  broken  by  serried 
dormers. 

The  custodian  met  us  at  the  door,  and  escorted 
us  inside  in  the  most  hospitable  way.  He  could  speak 
English  better  than  most  —  better  far  than  the  woman 
who  does  the  honours  at  Middleburg;  and  he  was 
so  proud  of  his  collection  and  so  determined  that  we 
should  see  everything  in  it  that  the  visit  lasted  a  long 
time.  His  chief  treasure  is  the  chased  and  enam- 
elled golden  goblet  given  to  the  town  in  1551  by 
Maximilian  of  Burgundy,  Veere's  first  marquis.  It 
is  kept  in  a  little  safe,  with  a  glass  front,  and  mirrors 


Last  Days  387 

deftly  arranged  behind  it  so  that  you  can  see  all  of 
it,  and  a  very  beautiful  work  of  art  it  is. 

Here  also  are  the  old  town  registers,  with  many 
famous  signatures;  one  of  the  entries  recording  the 
marriage  of  Hugo  Grotius  with  Maria  Reijgersbergh, 
of  Veere,  on  the  second  of  July,  1608  —  a  choice  in 
which  Grotius  showed  more  wisdom  than  he  did  on 
many  other  occasions.  Here,  too,  is  the  old  magis- 
trates' room,  just  as  it  has  been  for  centuries,  with 
the  carved  oak  seats  around  it,  and  a  double  seat  for 
the  judges,  with  a  switch  in  the  arm,  as  at  Middle- 
burg.  The  custodian  assured  us,  with  a  laugh,  how- 
ever, that  the  switch  actually  used  for  the  punishment 
of  offenders  was  a  much  heavier  one.  Here  also  are 
some  thief-catchers  —  spring-collars  with  spikes  on  the 
inside,  fastened  to  the  ends  of  long  poles.  Thrust  at 
the  leg  or  neck  of  a  fugitive,  they  must  have  stopped 
him  very  effectively. 

There  is  an  old  Dutch  fireplace,  above  which  hang 
a  number  of  bronze  hands,  reminders  of  the  day 
when  offenders  were  punished  by  being  mutilated. 
But  in  those  days,  as  in  these,  the  net  of  law  was 
cunningly  contrived,  so  that  only  the  little  fish  were 
caught  inextricably;  in  other  words,  if  the  criminal 
were  rich  enough,  he  could  save  his  hand  by  paying 
a  fine  and  hanging  up  in  the  council-room  a  bronze 
hand,  with  his  name  cut  on  it,  "  as  a  symbol  of  eter- 
nal shame,"  as  the  custodian  put  it.  One  of  these 
hands  grasps  a  hatchet  and  bears  the  name  of  Gue- 
brecht  Bremboas.  Poor  fellow !  The  "  symbol  of 


388  The  Spell  of  Holland 

eternal  shame  "  has  survived  all  other  memorials  of 
him! 

We  wandered  about  the  town  for  some  time,  after 
we  bade  the  ruddy- faced  custodian  good-bye;  out  to 
the  old  tower  which  still  stands  guard  at  the  spot 
which  was  once  the  harbour-mouth,  although  its  fel- 
low was  swept  away  by  a  great  flood  a  hundred  years 
ago,  and  the  harbour  is  nothing  but  a  mud-bank; 
along  the  beach,  if  the  stretch  of  mud  can  be  called 
so;  past  a  gaunt,  solitary  windmill,  and  back  again 
into  the  town. 

And  here  a  tragedy  happened.  As  we  neared  the 
town,  we  saw  ahead  of  us,  solemnly  promenading 
along  the  road  arm  in  arm,  three  little  girls,  in  the 
full  Zeeland  panoply  —  long  caps,  white  bibs,  black 
skirts,  and  white  aprons  —  just  such  cherubs  as  you 
see  on  the  postcards  of  M.  Den  Boer.  We  hastened 
forward,  we  pressed  a  few  pennies  into  each  eager 
fist,  we  led  them  to  the  top  of  the  dyke  and  posed 
them  with  that  old  windmill  in  the  background,  and 
I  snapped  the  picture,  and  we  watched  them  run  away 
toward  home,  comparing  their  coins.  But,  woe  of 
woes,  when  we  came  to  develop  that  film,  we  found 
that  the  shutter  had  failed  to  work  properly,  and  the 
picture  was  a  failure! 

We  stopped  in  at  the  church,  after  that,  as  yet 
happily  unconscious  of  this  disaster,  and  got  an  object 
lesson  in  what  may  happen  to  a  church  when  left  to 
the  elements.  For  this  tremendous  edifice  is  no  longer 
used  or  usable.  It  started  on  its  downward  career 


Last  Days  389 

in  1812,  when  the  French  turned  it  into  a  stable  and 
barracks,  and  partially  destroyed  it.  Now  it  is  merely 
a  wrecked  and  empty  shell,  with  the  windows  boarded 
up  and  the  walls  falling  down.  Quite  recently  the 
Zeeland  government  has  set  aside  the  sum  of  three 
thousand  gulden  yearly  to  be  used  in  its  restoration, 
but  that  sum,  I  fancy,  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  keep 
a  roof  over  it. 

We  drove  back  to  Middleburg,  at  last,  and  spent 
the  evening  loitering  about  those  charming  streets. 
We  were  a  little  sad,  for  it  was  our  last  night  in 
Holland. 

And  next  morning  we  took  the  train  to  Flushing, 
and  from  there  the  boat  across  the  Scheldt  to  Breskens, 
on  the  way  to  Bruges.  And  as  we  looked  back  across 
the  water,  we  could  see  Long  John,  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, beckoning  us  to  return. 

Perhaps,  some  day,  we  shall  heed  that  gesture! 


THE    END. 


INDEX 


Aanroeper,  325-32?,  328. 

Aanspreckers,  257-259. 

Aertsz,  Jan,  34. 

Alkmaar,  204,  208-226. 

Alva,  Duke  of,  32,  136,  224, 
305,  351-352. 

Amicis,  Edmondo  de,  51,  229, 
276-277. 

Amstel,  The,  167. 

Amsterdam,  13,  84,  89,  122, 
123,  144,  162,  164-189,  191, 
194,  209,  221,  226,  227,  241, 
245,  246,  247,  250,  262,  272, 

290,  375- 

Arnhem,  18,  350,  352-355. 

Architecture,  30-36,  74,  76-77, 
I33-I36,  259-260,  262,  272- 
273,  285-286,  304-309,  353- 
354,  359-360,  362-364,  379- 
381,  386. 

Art,  18,  82-83,  104-106,  108- 
110,  138-140,  181-189. 

Artz,  D.  C.  A.,  108-109. 

Barnevelt,  John  of,  106-107. 
Beek,  357. 
Benedenveer,  38. 
Bergen  op  Zoom,  365. 
Bloemendaal,   144. 
Blommers,  B.  J.,  188. 
Bol,  Ferdinand,  29,  261. 
Bonaparte,  Louis,  169,  181. 
Bonaparte,   Napoleon,   71,   104, 

169. 

Books,  83-84. 
Bossu,  Admiral,  250. 
Boxum,  292. 

Boymans  Museum,   17-18. 
Brabant,  Duke  of.  362. 
Brabant,    Province    of    North, 

-tfi,  362,  364-365. 


391 


Breda,  365. 

Brederode,  Castle  of,  144-146. 

Breskens,  384-385,  389. 

Brick-making,    55-56,   221-222. 

Brill,  305. 

Broek,  165,  228-229. 

Cafes,  26,  71-72,  97,  129,  141- 
142,  177-178,  245,  312-313, 
34i,  352. 

Canals,  5,  7,  14,  28,  29-30,  58- 
62,  73,  248,  287-288. 

Capellen,  Baron,  286-287. 

Carillons,  84-85,  214,  220,  263, 

313,  376-379. 

Catherine  of  Bourbon,  359. 

Catz,  Jakob,  64. 

Cemeteries,  204-206,  329-330. 

Charlemagne,  360. 

Charles  V.,  263,  354. 

Cheese,  208,  210-220,  242,  254, 
340. 

Churches,  30-37,  40,  52-53,  56, 
62,  74-79,  131,  133-136,  172- 
175,  221-223,  251-252,  262, 
284-286,  308-309,  353-354, 
359,  362-364,  376,  388-389. 

Claas,  Haasje,  166. 

Cleanliness,  15-16,  18,  38,  48- 
51,  56,  59-60,  119-120,  155- 
156,  256,  269,  282-283. 

Cof>n.  Jan  Pietersz,  250.  257 

Coffee,   in-112,  340-341. 

Conrad,   135,   137. 

fornelisson,  Jan.  ?42-243. 

Costume,    53-54,   58-59,   65,   88, 

220-221,      229,      231,      233-23t;, 
238,     2^5,     259.     270-271.     272, 
276-278,        301-303.         TTR-^TQ, 
361.  366,  367-368.  38J-?KC 
Courting,  20,  65,   152,  368-370. 


392 


Index 


Currency,  g,  42. 

Customs  examination,  I,  3,  47. 

Cuyp,  Albert,  17,  26,  28,  38. 

"Dead  Cities,"  249-251. 

Delft,  30,  41.  46,  58,  62-63,  68, 
69,  73-85,  89,  106,  112,  113, 
114,  120,  185,  288,  375. 

Delftshaven,  18-19,  86. 

Deventer,  351. 

Diamonds,  176-177,  180. 

Dirksz,  Pieter,  242. 

Dirckzoon,  Admiral,  250. 

Dordrecht,    9,    26-38,    41,    77, 

122. 

Dou,    Gerard,   94,   95,    105-106, 

182. 

Drenthe,  279-280. 
Dunes,    64,    65,    140-141,     143, 

146-149. 
Dykes,  5,  86,  158,  159,  209,  240, 

248,  253. 

East  Indies,  250,  352. 
Edam,  208,  240-244,  249. 
Eels,  97,  153. 
Egmont,  Charles  van,  Duke  of 

Gueldres,  290-291,  354-355. 
Enkhuisen,    63,    249,    254-265, 

281,  305,  315,  317,  334. 
Erasmus,  16-17,  178. 
Everdingen,    C.    B.    van,    138- 

139,  222. 

Fish  and  fishing,  15,  39,  53,  61- 
62,  66-67,  J25,  129,  158,  229, 
263-264,  327-328,  331- 

Flevo,  Lake,  249,  280,  330. 

Florus  V.,  Count  of  Holland, 
222. 

Flowers,    60-61,    124,    125-126, 

154- 

Flushing,  I,  377,  385,  389. 
Frederick,    Don,    121-122,    136, 

224. 
Friesland,  7,  220,  265-279. 

Gapers,  131-132. 

Gardens,    60-61,    IOO-IOT,    141, 

143-144. 
Gerard,  Baltasar,  80. 


Gherardts,  Gherardt,  see  Eras- 
mus. 

Giessendam,  38,  39,  40. 

Gijsbrecht  II.,  167. 

Goes,  377. 

Gprinchem,  38,  40-42,  256. 

Gouda,  48-54,  126. 

Goyen,  Jan  van,  94,  359. 

Groningen,  89,  278. 

Grotius,  Hugo,  40-41,  73-74, 
387. 

Guelderland,  353. 

Guides,  167-168,  190,  195. 

Gutenberg,  137-138. 

Haarlem,  34,  63,  64,  96,  112, 
119-123,  129-130,  131-142, 
143,  144,  149-153,  154,  156, 
157,  160-164,  185,  224,  262.* 

Hague,  The,  63,  65,  68,  69,  81, 

82,   84,    IOO,    I02-II2,    114,    115, 
227,    362. 

Halfweg,  123-124,  126. 

Hals,    Frans,  98,    108,    138-139, 

181,  182,  185,  323. 
Havard,   Henri,  242,   246,   268, 

315,  327,  328,  331- 
Heerenveen,  279. 
Hein,  Pieter  Pieterszoon,  79. 
Hobbema,    Meindert,    17,    124, 

3«- 

Hofjes,  95-96,  151-152,  174-175- 

Holbein,  Hans,  17. 

Hooch,  Pieter  de,  182,  185. 

Hoorn,  248-254,  259,  263. 

Hospitality,  91,  100-101,  255, 
308,  322-323,  348-349. 

Hotels :  Weimar,  Rotterdam, 
n,  23-25;  de  1'Europe,  Ant- 
werp, 47-48;  Central,  Delft, 
62-63,  112;  Vieux  Doelen, 
The  Hague,  103 ;  Brink- 
mann,  Haarlem,  129;  Duin 
en  Daal,  Bloemendaal,  144; 
Spaander,  Volendam,  240; 
Die  Poort  van  Cleve,  Enk- 
huisen, 258-259 ;  Kaiser- 
kroon,  Zwolle,  280;  Pays- 
Bas,  Kampen,  291,  297-300, 
350;  Oranje,  Nijmwegen, 
3^6,  361 ;  Burg  en  Daal, 
Nijmwegen,  356;  Vieux 


Index 


393 


Doelen,      Middleburg,      370- 
371 ;       Abdij,      Middleburg, 

375- 
Huygens,  Constantyn,  64. 

Ij,  The,  123,  167,  228,  241. 

Ijssel,  The,  155,  249,  291,  298, 
317-318,  351,  352. 

Inns,  11-12,  23-24,  40,  44-46,  47, 
62-63,  103-104,  119-121,  243- 
244,  258-259,  298,  338-349- 

Israels,  Josef,  187,  188,  273. 

Java,  340. 

Juliana,  Princess,  16,  171,  380. 

Kampen,  63,  120-121,  249,  254, 
259,  286,  291-316,  346-348, 
350,  362. 

Katwijk-aan-den-Rijn,  156-157. 

Katwijk-aan-Zee,  135,  154,  158- 

159- 

Kay,  Leiven  de,  132. 
Kempis,  Thomas  a,  286. 
Kermess,  The,  97-99,  382-383. 
Kevijr,  Trijntje,  242,  243. 
Klarenbeck,  355. 
Koster,  Laurenz  Janszoon,  137- 

138. 

Landscape,  characteristics  of, 
4-7,  60-61,  123-126,  209-210, 
248,  254-257,  268-269,  279- 
280,  291,  309-312,  350-352, 
361,  365,  366. 

Language,  44~47,  83-84,  104, 
269-271,  275-276. 

Leeuwarden,  272-278. 

Leeuwenhoek,  Anthony  van, 
79. 

Leiden,  84,  86-100,  121,  138, 
149,  151,  153,  154,  155,  289, 
305. 

Lek,  The,  155. 

Loevenstein,  40-41,  74. 

Lotteries,  84. 

Luggage,  57-58,  246-247. 

Maas,  The,  29. 
Maes,  Nicholas,  29. 
Magonza,  Faust  of,  137. 


Mar,  de  la,  20,  21. 

Marken,  68,  165,  192,  227-238, 
274,  324,  329. 

Markets,  28-29,  37-38,  51,  56, 
210-220,  269-270,  283-284. 

Marnix,  Elizabeth  van,  79. 

Mauritshuis  Museum,  81,  82, 
98,  103,  104-106. 

Mauve,  Anton,  187,  188,  312. 

Maximilian  of  Burgundy,  386. 

Medemblik,  249,  266. 

Meppel,  280. 

Merwede,  The,  26-27,  29,  38. 

Mesdag,  H.  W.,  108-110,  187, 
188,  273. 

Metsu,  Gabriel,  94,  106,  184- 
185. 

Meyer,  Louis,  188. 

Middenveer,  38. 

Middleburg,  254,  312,  366-389. 

Mieris,  William  van,  94. 

Monnikendam,  228-231,  249. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  44,  73, 
76,  in,  121,  145,  208,  352. 

Museums:  Boymans,  17-18; 
Rijks,  18,  139,  181-189,  359; 
Mauritshuis,  81,  82,  98,  103, 
104-106;  Mesdag,  103,  108- 
110;  Steengracht,  108;  Mu- 
nicipal (Hague),  108;  Mu- 
nicipal (Haarlem),  138-140; 
Municipal  (Amsterdam),  166, 
187-188;  Fodor,  188;  Six, 
188;  Frisian,  272-273;  Mu- 
nicipal, Nijmwegen,  358; 
Municipal,  Middleburg,  380- 
381 ;  Municipal,  Veere,  386- 
387. 

Nassau,    Frederick   Henry   of, 

362. 
Nassau,   Maurice   of,   74,    102, 

104,  107. 

Neck,  Johann  van,  261. 
Nijmwegen,  355-361. 
Nole,  Jacob  Kolyn  de,  306. 
Noordwijk,  159,  160. 
North   Sea,   13,   143,   153,    157, 

209,  249.  250. 

Orange.  William  of,  see  Will-v 
iam  of  Orange. 


394 


Index 


Orphanages,    149-151.    165-166, 

261-262,  272. 

Ostaae,  Adriaen  van,  106,  185. 
Osterlyn,  Jan,  242,  243. 
Oudekerk,  55. 
Oudewater,  14. 
Over-Ijssel,  280,  286. 

Papendrecht,  41-42. 

Parma,  Margaret  of,  305. 

Peat,  36,  37,  126-127,  248,  279- 
280. 

Peter  the  Great,  Czar  of  Rus- 
sia, 162-163,  190-202. 

Philip  II.,  52. 

Pilgrim  Fathers,  18-19,  93-94- 

Poffertjes,  97-98,  153. 

Polders,  48,  122-124,  209,  247- 
248. 

Foot,  Huibert  Corneliszoon,  79. 

Potter,  Paul,  105. 

Prince  Consort,  171-172. 

Purmerend,  248. 

Quellin,  Artus,  169. 

Railways,  2-3,  8-9,  87,  112-118, 

265-266. 

Reijgersbergh,  Maria,  387. 
Rembrandt,    94,    95,    105,    108, 

181-182,  183-184,  185,  188. 
Rhine,  The,  26,  31,  94,  96,  135, 

155,  157,  249,  298,  351. 
Rijks  Museum,  18,  36,  82,  139, 

166,  181-189. 
Robinson,  John,  94. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  139,  231- 

232. 

Rotte,  The,  13. 
Rotterdam,   2-3,    n,    13-18,   22, 

26,  41,  42-43,  48,  54,  55,  56, 

58,  60,  61,  221,  227,  288. 
Ruisdael,  Jakob  van,   124,  134, 

146,  182,  185. 
Ruyter,  Admiral  de,  174. 

Scheffer,  Ary,  28-29,  3& 
Scheveningen,   63-68,   115,   160, 

221. 

Schiedam,  19. 
Schnapps,  19,  239. 
Schouten,  Willem,  250. 


'S  Gravenhage,  see  Hague. 
'S  Hertogenbosch,  362-365. 
Shipping,  13-16,  38,  42,  54-55, 

.66,  335-336. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  352. 
Singel,  The,  96-97. 
Sloterdijk,  128-129. 
Smoking,  9-11,  2O,  21-23,   JI7- 
118,  200,   240,  265,  273,  274, 

341. 

Sneek,  268-271. 
Spaniards,  The,  27,  32,  86,  121, 

123,     135-136,    208-209,    224- 

225,  229,  250,  292,  305,  351- 

352,  382. 
Staphorst,  280. 
Stavoren,  249,  266-268. 
Steen,  Jan,  36,  94-95,  98,   105, 

106,  182,  185-186,  273,  323. 
Steengracht  Museum,  108. 
Stoofjes,  36-37,  127. 
Storks,  55,  136,  156. 
Sumatra,  21,  340. 
Swans,  125. 

Tasman,  Abel,  250. 

Terborch,     Gerard,     106,     185, 

286. 

Texel,  135. 
Theatres,  19-21. 
Tilburg,  365. 
Tipping,  12,  120,  199,  200,  228, 

235-236,  348. 
Towing,  14,  330. 
Toys,  162-163. 
Tram-lines,  9,  27-28,  63,  68-70, 

122,  228,  254-257,  287. 

Trekschuits,  14,  15,  240. 
Trees,  shapes  of,  4,  39-40,  256. 
Tromp,  Maarten  Harpertszoon, 
77-78,  250. 

Uitgeest,  210. 
Universities,  86,  89-90. 
Urk,  292,  314-337. 

Van  Dieman's  Land,  250. 
Veere,  377.  385-389. 
Velde,  Adriaen  van  de,  106. 
Vest,  The,  377,  381. 
Vermeer,  Jan,  81-83,   106,  185, 
187. 


Index 


395 


Villas,     140-141,    143-145,    149, 

256,  352-353- 

Volendam.  165,  221,  227,  238- 
240. 

Waal,  The,  29,  155,  355,  359. 
Wafelen,  97-98,  153. 
Walcheren,  377,  383. 
Water-beggars,  305. 
Waterloo,  71,  104. 
Wilhelmina,    Queen,    16,    171- 

172,  380. 
William  I.,  Count  of  Holland, 

135,  38i. 
William  II.,  Count  of  Holland, 

IO2. 

William  of  Orange,  73,  75-76, 
79-81,  86,  121,  145,  172,  209, 
225,  263,  362. 


Windmills,  190,  193,  202-203, 
209,  214,  247,  283,  287-289, 

Winter,  Admiral  de,  309. 

Witt,  Cornelis  and  Jan  de,  107. 

Women,  work  of,  55-56,  248- 
249,  300-301. 

Zaan,  The,  193. 

Zaandaam,   190-202,  209,  247. 

Zaandijk,  202-206,  209. 

Zandvoort,  140-141. 

Zeeland,  7,  220,  365-366. 

Zutphen,  351-352. 

Zuyder  Zee,  94,  208,  209,  236, 
241,  246,  247,  248,  249-251, 
266-267,  292,  297,  298,  305, 
314,  3i7-3i8,  330,  335-336. 

Zwolle,  132,  278,  280-291,  294, 
300,  350. 


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